


In the Days Past the Night

by tantrum (thenotesfollowme)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Kuroo Tetsurou, Hurt/Comfort, Kenma and Kuroo are both super unreliable narrators, Kozume Kenma is a Good Friend, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Kozume Kenma, Protective Kuroo Tetsurou, Recovery, Slavery, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, all that trauma really affects their self image, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenotesfollowme/pseuds/tantrum
Summary: Some things you do for survival. Some for justice. Some for love.Bokuto is lost. Kenma and Kuroo are just trying to navigate existence when the rules keep changing. Akaashi is trying to keep it all together.A slowburn, slavery AU with runaways, adventure, and incredible acts of bravery.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou/Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Akaashi Keiji/Kozume Kenma, Akaashi Keiji/Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 117
Kudos: 105





	1. Bokuto I & Kenma I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [But Not the Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/167282) by [ignipes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes), [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this is my first foray into fanfiction in like... over 10 years, and my first serious attempt ever. The plot of this fic is lovingly, but blatantly ripped off of @Ignipes bandom epic "But Not the Song".
> 
> I am unsure exactly how much of this story will follow "But Not the Song," as I am still in the process of writing, but especially the beginning inciting actions are lifted pretty much directly from it. I had the urge to reread it recently and it turned into an urge to but my good, good, volleyball boys into this situation and see what changed. 
> 
> This will be a lot of hurt before the comfort, please heed all warnings, but also please know that I am not in the interest of, nor capable of writing graphic scenes of sexual assault and they will be at most alluded to, then fade to black, and almost all of it in in the past, with the exception of one instance of it, in this chapter, and the only other thing coming close will be a kind of dub-con scene a few chapters later, which I will warn about in the author's notes. 
> 
> Additionally this chapter comes with a TW for suicide of a minor original character.

Bokuto feels as though he hasn’t been dry in days. It was drizzling now, and had been doing so near constantly for the last few weeks, well into the rainy season in the most humid area on the continent.. The only respite from the moody grey sky was the sporadic bursts of afternoon sunlight, which were not nearly sufficient to dry his wet clothes or warm his cold body. His feet were shriveled and caked in freezing mud, the nice leather boots gifted to him by his former master now adorning the feet of a similarly sized caravan guard. 

Business at the market was slow, and Bokuto would be glad for the break in the seemingly endless walking that had stretched on over the last three months he had been with the caravan if not for biting wind piercing through his now threadbare clothes and persisting ache in his legs caused by standing at attention as a merchant walks slowly along the lines. 

The merchant was the first potential buyer Bokuto had seen in days. He's a stout man, a head shorter than Bokuto, but nearly as broad with a belly to match. His clothing is fine, but old, worn in places that suggested years of overuse. He carries a riding crop trailing it along the ground, erratically snapping it cruelly at the calves of slaves he passed, smirking at their flinching reactions. 

He crosses in front of Bokuto, last at the end and Bokuto averts his eyes. He'd learned that lesson quickly in the last few months.

"Field slaves, field slaves, field slaves," the merchant tsks. Bokuto has never worked in a field in his life. At the Fukurodani estate he was… Well he doesn't know quite what he was. He would cook sometimes. Hunt with Lord Yamiji's friends. Entertain company with his loud, bawdy jokes. It was an easy assumption to make, with Bokuto's broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin and somehow still-slightly-bulging muscle which was persisting as well as it could throughout the last three months best described as "hungry". But they weren't muscles earned by labor, but by sport, and vanity. From wrestling and training with Tatsuki and Yamato. Climbing trees and dragging back hunts with Akinori. Walking on his hands and flexing to impress the giggling ladies always about, while sneaking glances at the beautiful and stoic Akaashi. 

The merchant taps his riding crop impatiently against his hand, "I was hoping for something a bit more refined. I have no need for these brainless brutes." 

Bokuto decidedly does not roll his eyes at being called brainless. He could read a little if he struggled, but he was quite good at maths and more than once he was appointed to the task of balancing Fukurodani's sizeable ledger. Lord Yamiji often said he had no patience for numbers and was grateful for Bokuto's talents. It would not do to correct the merchant, nor the caravan master, for he doubted he would be believed, despite the high value of an educated slave able to do the work required to manage households. Bokuto knew what he looked like. Strong, dumb, but there were worse things than a life in the fields, and Bokuto liked the outdoors when he wasn't so freezingly cold and wet. 

Worse things and- "Right you are sir, we do have some property with more special skills, for your consideration." 

The caravan master was by no means an incompetent salesman and the months long dry spell was more of an indication of the continent’s lean pocket books in the face of the plague than any poor business sense. He clapped his hands twice, sharply, and Bokuto and the others were moved to the side to make way for the more specialty merchandise. 

A small line-up forms of the slaves that the caravan master claims to have special skills. Bokuto had noticed none of them yet in the months he had been in the caravan, the tired faces of individual slaves blurring into one hungry, hurting mass. The last few months were spent mostly passing through rural, agriculture-focused regions, where the people were by and large either too poor or too practical for the luxury of anything more than another body to work their fields. 

There was a tall, impossibly pale woman with white hair and reddish eyes, whom the master claimed to be an accomplished ballet dancer. An older, stout man who had spent his years before the caravan managing a nobleman's large and profitable stable. A thin, bored looking young man with dyed blonde hair that had grown out to show chocolate brown roots that matched his wide, expressionless eyes. 

"This one is an accomplished musician and composer, sir,” said the caravan master, “Before coming into my possession he played for some of the greatest households in the southern capital. His owners were the envy of all." 

Bokuto could see it. Once it was spoken, Bokuto wondered how anyone could look at the young boy and see anything but a musician. Long, delicate fingers that tapped methodically at his thigh in the same 1-3-2-4 pattern again and again. Even his breathing seemed measured, rhythmic. "He can read and do maths as well, he is very well-educated, sir, and has dual purpose usage as both household management and entertainment."

"That I doubt very much," the merchant sighs, placing the riding crop under the young man's chin to force his gaze upward, staring into the deadpan brown eyes that met his unflinchingly, and flicking at a strand of half-dyed hair. "The creature would be of no use to me anyway. Nothing more than a pampered plaything for a spoiled woman and I have no one at home to so indulge." 

He waves his hand dismissively, "If this is really all you have I must be going." 

"Of course sir, I would hate to waste your time, but before you go-" the caravan master steps smoothly in front of the merchant, hands up in a placating gesture, "is it possible you are interested in a plaything better suited for more, to put it delicately, gentlemanly pursuits?"

The merchant pauses, sniffing and flicking at an imaginary particle of dust on his shoulder, "I may have been known to indulge from time to time." 

The caravan masters eyes brighten, and he cracks a large smile, snapping his fingers at the standing guards. "You heard the gentleman," he says, "bring out our pretty kitten." 

The guards hurry away, returning quickly with another young man, rail thin, as tall as Bokuto himself, and naked but for the stiff leather collar around his neck and matching shackle decorating his left ankle. There are shining metal piercings along both of his ears, decorative silver chains wrap around his chest like a harness, and his face is delicately painted. Dark black kohl lines his eyes, making his intense expression all the more fierce. His lips were painted a cherry red, and there is a dusting of pink along the bridge of his nose mimicking a natural flush. More impressive still were the elegant swirls of color sweeped over his eyelids, something Bokuto had only seen on the courtesans from the wealthiest of houses. 

His dark, nearly black hair seems an untouchable impossibility in the drizzling rain, side swept bangs falling delicately over his left eye with decisive spikes of volume on top, creating an image more like a rare exotic bird than any common kitten as the master referred to him. He was undoubtedly beautiful, too bright for the dreary day and dirty caravan. The guards shove him forward, but he does not stumble, standing upright with his shoulders back and chin tilted up, looking almost haughty as he stares down his nose at the merchant.

The shorter man’s eyes light up, as he begins to circle the younger slave, eyeing the boy like prey. Bokuto feels his stomach drop as the slaves around him shuffle uneasily and avert their eyes. No one likes to watch bed-slaves being sold. There were worse things than a life in the fields, and as Bokuto forces himself to witness the young man in front of him, he can’t help but think that this is one of them. Bokuto watches the merchant drag his riding crop between the inside of the slaves thighs, tracing the curve of his ass, following up his spine as he lets out a long whistle.

“Legs for days on this one,” he says, circling back to the front, “and certainly very pretty.” The young man’s posture doesn’t change, but Bokuto can see the slight tremble in his knees, and he hates himself for the mantra of “Thank god that’s not me” echoing through his mind, and likely the mind of the other slaves present, but there was an odd hush over the caravan that Bokuto had not witnessed yet in his time there. 

“He is well-behaved,” the caravan master says, though Bokuto sees him shoot what he believes to be a warning look at the slave, “And very well trained. I daresay there is nothing you could ask of him he would find too… unusual.”

“Hmm-” murmures the merchant, a put upon frown on his face, doing nothing to take away from the hunger in his eyes as they wandered over the young man’s naked form, “and undoubtedly well-used too. Indulging a little yourself I don’t doubt, and the guards too.”

“Of course not sir!” the caravan master protests. “On my honor, the boy hasn’t been touched since entering my ownership. We hold ourselves to the highest standards, and would not deign to sully such a beautiful prize and lower his value.”

There is a quiet snort, unheard by the conversing men, and Bokuto glances around, seeing the source of the noise was the musician that had been presented and shuffled aside, now standing a few feet from Bokuto. He is the only other slave watching the interaction intently, and his previously expressionless eyes were now filled with… something. Anger? Bokuto thinks, maybe worry? 

“I see bruises though,” says the merchant, “Here.” He pointed, and even from this distance, Bokuto could see the shadow of a bruise on the young man’s hips. “He’s also a bit thin for my taste. Some slight scarring too, on his back. Makes me doubt your claims on his behaviour, I know punishment scars when I see them.”

“Resources are short, my good sir,” said the caravan master, eyes darting impatiently. He joined the merchant in front of the young man, who’s expression was unflinching in the face of their appraisal of him. The caravan master continued, stern eyes meeting the slave’s gaze as he spoke through a toothy forced grin. “The bruising is no doubt from the hard conditions of traveling on the road. We’ve not exactly had feather beds to spare, and you know the type. So delicate. As for the scarring well,” a lecherous grin overtakes the caravan master’s face, “We picked him up from the capital, and you know those city types. No limit on their perversions, some like a little pain with their pleasure.”

“Very well,” the merchant mumbles, shrugging noncommittally. He reaches forward and up to caress the young man’s face and guide it down towards him, riding crop resting against the skin of the boy’s collarbone, voice a low purr that carried across the silent caravan, “Open your mouth kitten, let me see how much cock you can handle.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bokuto catches a full-body flinch overcome the dual-haired musician observing the scene, but the dark-haired young man doesn’t so much as twitch. His lips stayed pressed together in a straight line. 

“Now,” the merchant says sharply, frown overtaking his face.

The young man says nothing, eyes staring over the merchant’s shoulder, expression completely blank.

The caravan master steps forward, mouth opening to say something, but the merchant’s hand caressing the young man’s face in a parody of softness harshens in its grip. He grabs the slave’s chin so tight, the young man’s lips part with a startled gasp, and the merchant’s face is overtaken by a cruel smile. The young man’s eyes narrow, and he jerks his chin away from the man’s grasp, snaking his head down and biting the man’s hand, hard.

Holy shit. Bokuto thinks. There is a cacophony of quiet gasps from the assembled slaves and guards.

Holy shit. And he can see the young musician shaking, fingers tapping in their 1-3-2-4 even faster against his thigh. 

The merchant lets out a howl of pain, ripping his hand away with a heaving tug. There is red smeared across the back of hand, and at first Bokuto thinks the young man has managed to draw blood, before realizing it's merely the transfer of his bright red lipstick, which is now smeared across the young man’s face. The merchant retaliates, raising his riding crop and bringing it down, hard across the young man’s cheek with enough force he careens to the side, falling into the standing guards who shove him forward again. 

The merchant grabs onto the young man, fingers pulling at the impractical dark hair, pulling him forward onto his hands and knees. 

“You stupid filthy whore! What the hell do you think you’re doing!” He raises the riding crop again, and the young man winces, preparing for another strike across the cheek, but the caravan master grabs his wrist, stopping the blow. “And you- is this a game to you! What are you doing, release me and bring me a knife, so I can put down this rabid animal myself!”

The musician quietly chokes, eyes wide staring at the scene in front of him. 

The caravan master pulls the man away, babbling loud, nonsensical apologies, steering him away from the kneeling slave who is wearing a large, proud smile on his lipstick smeared face. The caravan master is backpedalling, offering discounts, attempting to save the sale, but the merchant wants none of it, turning on his heel and storming off to his waiting horse, riding away and leaving the caravan behind.

The murmuring amongst the slaves stops abruptly as the caravan master marches to stand in front of the kneeling slave, who is held in place by a guard’s firm hand in his hair, taking in his disheveled appearance and sly smile. The caravan master’s voice is shaking as he says, “Do you think this is funny, you worthless bitch?”

The kneeling man twists in the guards grip enough to spit at the caravan master’s shoes and says in a falsely bright voice, “He tasted like shit.”

The guard pulls on the boys hair again, yanking so hard his knees come off the ground. The caravan master steps forward, raising his hand, and the young man flinches expecting a strike, but instead the caravan master brushes his cheek softly, “You know what happens when you misbehave, kitten.”

The young man’s expression hardens, eyes rolling up to look challengingly at the caravan master. The older man snorts, “Oh, I know kitten. You think I’ll hit you now. Sometimes, I think being hurt is your comfort zone, some kind of sick motivation for you, so you can feel like you’re fighting. But you aren’t fighting, kitten, you have nothing left to fight with.”

The caravan master continues to stroke the kneeling man’s face softly, voice leveling to a calm murmur, “So I my guards are going to fuck you, every last one. And when they’re done, I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to make you like it, because I know you hate it, kitten. I know you hate when I fuck you nice, and slow, and sweet, and make you cum, because you like to pretend that you don’t like this. Like being a whore isn’t exactly what you were made for.” The young man tries to pull his face away from the caravan master’s touch, but is unable to move with the guard’s strict hand in his hair. 

“Grab his friend.” 

Bokuto looks over as guards appeared to grab at the musician who had his eyes trained on the caravan master and the kneeling slave. In a blink, the musician’s expression returned to the same blank vacancy that occupied his face while he was being appraised by the merchant. Empty, cold chocolate eyes stared forward as he was dragged in front of the caravan master and kneeling young man.

“Kitten, your little friend here is going to watch, I want him to look you in the eyes, and see your expression, hear every wince, whimper and moan we pull out of you. And I want you to be real expressive with your eyes kitten, real expressive. Give him a preview. Because the next time you ruin one of my sales, it’ll be him we fuck.” For the first time, Bokuto sees panic cross the young man’s face, as he surges forward pulling against the hand in his hair.

The guards push the musician down onto his knees, eye to eye with the restrained young man. Bokuto can see a hungry satisfaction in the guards’ eyes as they roll their shoulders and begin to unlace their breeches. 

The caravan master continues, moving away from the kneeling slave to pet gently at the young musician’s bi-colored hair. “You're lucky your friend has so many useful skills, kitten, lucky he is worth so much. Because otherwise, I’d be whipping him within an inch of his life right now. I know then you’d get the picture.” He continues to pet at the musician, who’s expression remains unreadable as he is forced to maintain eye contact with his friend.

The slaves around Bokuto shift uncomfortably, a guard, one Bokuto hasn’t seen react since the merchant arrived sighs, and begins to shuffle the slaves back towards the wagons and tents that make up their caravan. They all avert their eyes from the scene, knowing what comes next as well as Bokuto. 

“Well,” the caravan master said, long fingers still tangled in brown and blond hair as he uses his free hand to snap at the guard behind the restrained slave, “get on with it. No marks, we are meeting some buyers in a few days and I’m hoping to sell this entire wretched lot.”

An improbably large guard settles himself behind the dark haired young man with a lecherous grin, and Bokuto turns away.

Kenma’s eyes didn’t leave Kuroo’s for the entire ordeal. Kuroo himself looked away, face held straight forward by the cruel hand in his hair, but his eyes were darting off to the side, unable to look at Kenma. Despite this, Kenma catalogued every wince and pained expression that crossed Kuroo’s face, committing them to memory as he always had. 

Hours later, when it was done, when there was no longer a hand in his hair facing him towards his friend, when the caravan master returned to his feet and aimed a lazy kick at Kuroo, who at this point had collapsed into the mud and muck, exhausted and shivering, Kenma still can’t look away. 

“Put the kitten back in his cage,” the caravan says lazily, stretching his arms indulgently above his head, “No dinner. Restricted meals from here on out. Maybe he’ll be nicer if he’s hungry.”

“And this one?” the guard near Kenma says, gesturing to him, but Kenma is still just watching Kuroo intently, “Should we cage him separately?”

“No,” says the caravan master, a wide smile, “Let him attend to his friend if he chooses. So obedient, he didn’t look away once. But such a cold expression. You didn’t even flinch, does he really mean so little to you, boy?”

Kenma doesn’t respond, still kneeling silently, keeping his face in the carefully arranged neutrality he has worked so hard on over the years. 

“Feed him first though, make sure he doesn’t sneak away any food. Then let him be.” The caravan master turns again to the shivering Kuroo, reaching down to pet his thick black hair, “Remember what I said kitten. I can be nice, look how nice I am to your friend. I can be nice when you deserve it.” 

Kuroo flinches at the touch and the words and Kenma is filled with fury, as he remembers the caravan master’s cruel remarks as he took Kuroo.

_“Maybe if your friend could teach you some useful skills we wouldn’t have to do this, Kitten. Go on, look at him, not a scratch on him, because he’s actually worth something. If you were anything more than a dumb whore we wouldn’t have to treat you like one.”_

Kenma feels his hands start to shake in his anger, so he takes a deep breath and brings his right hand to his thigh, tapping in the 1-3-2-4 pattern his mother taught him long ago.

“For dexterity,” she had said, tapping his thumb to his fingers in the correct sequence, “You have such a natural talent for piano Kenma-cat! If you practice and practice and practice, you could be amazing!” 

So like all things Kenma’s parents asked of him, he did it. He practiced, and practiced and practiced until it became ingrained in him. The pattern, the piano, and later the violin, and academia, all of it, and sometimes while practicing or studying, he would look down from his window, into the garden, where Kuroo would be working diligently, pulling up weeds, and smiling at every passerby, and he would remember Kuroo’s tearstained face after the resulting consequences of the first time Kenma told his father “No”. So Kenma practiced more. Studied more. Cultivated terms like “prodigy” or “genius” that were thrown at him by those who did not see the hours of effort and practice, and words like “diligent” and “self-disciplined” from those that did, though it was never Kenma who was disciplined. 

Kuroo is lifted from the mud and onto his feet by two of the standing guards, who laugh as he stumbles, struggling to find his footing. He is dragged more than led back to his usual cage towards the front of the caravan, and Kenma stands to follow, before remembering the caravan master’s orders. With a weary look at the remaining guards, he sighs, walking carefully towards the cart where more guards were handing out rations, knees aching after kneeling so long.

 _Kuroo feels worse right now,_ he reminds himself as he finds a place in the growing line. He tilted his face up towards the still drizzling sky, letting the water drop onto his cheeks and roll off. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Kuroo cries all the time, and always has ever since they were children, when Kuroo would sniffle, red-faced and whining, about everything. About missing his mother, about Kenma not having enough time for him, about the Kozume’s foreman being mean to him, about the cook’s bully of a son taking one of the few toys Kenma had managed to sneak to him. 

The crying stopped after the incident, when Kenma was eight, and Kuroo nine. Or at least, Kuroo stopped crying to Kenma. But Kenma still catches it, when he wakes up at night and finds Kuroo still awake, curled up and staring at the sky, silent tear tracks on his face. Kenma has tried to ask him about it, but Kuroo just pastes on his big, sparkling smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and causes a sharp pain in Kenma’s chest whenever he sees it, and pretends he doesn’t know what Kenma is talking about. So Kenma doesn’t cry either.

Kenma reaches the front of the line, takes the bread and the parody of stew they hand him. He goes to walk towards the front of the caravan, towards Kuroo, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. Kenma looks up to see one of the large guards who looks down at him sternly, “You heard him, Kozume. Eat here. Now.” 

Kenma is hungry. They are all hungry here, there was never enough food to go around, and Kuroo and Kenma had been with the caravan long enough that the constant pangs from their empty stomachs were less of a noticeable problem and more set-dressing. But Kuroo wouldn’t be eating at all tonight. Kenma stares at the bowl of not-quite-stew and the hunk of hard bread and considers dropping them, letting them fall into the mud beneath him and seep beneath the wagon's tires, ruined and inedible amongst the mud and horse shit. The caravan master has made it clear that he is unwilling to mark up Kenma, worth too much, but that doesn’t mean his ire won’t fall to someone else and regardless of how much more Kuroo could take, Kenma doesn’t think he can handle watching anymore. 

He looks down at the food again. He is hungry. It doesn’t make sense for both he and Kuroo to be starving and miserable. Kuroo would want him to eat, as much as Kenma knows if their situations were reversed, Kuroo would throw the bowl of lukewarm stew at the caravan master’s head before eating while Kenma was going hungry. But Kuroo was always braver, always willing to bear the consequences for his beliefs, when Kenma never could. 

Kenma knows he is a coward. So he does what cowards do, and crouches down in front of the guard to eat his meager meal. He turns out his pockets when asked, not that he even attempted to squirrel away food under the guards’ watchful eye. They nod, satisfied, and Kenma rises to begin his walk towards Kuroo’s cage at the front of the caravan. 

Kuroo used to ride in the same covered wagon as the other specialty slaves, Kenma, the tall dancer that spoke a lilting unfamiliar language, the gruff old stablehand, and Daisuke, the only other bedslave in the caravan.

Kenma had laughed to himself when the caravan master had declared to the merchant that Kuroo was untouched by himself and the guards. True enough, in the last few weeks, but it wasn’t out of respect for Kuroo, or even the profits he represented, but fear. Kuroo and Daisuke had been left to deal with the guards advances, until Daisuke had stolen a knife from a guard while servicing him, then used that knife to slit his own wrist, blood staining the floor of their shared covered wagon.

Kuroo had been furious. Called it a waste, and whispered to Kenma what he would do if he could get his hands on a knife. How he would break everyone’s bindings, sneak everyone off into the night and run north, somewhere they could all be safe. Kenma had pointed out that there was no way they could free everyone, probably not even themselves, not with one knife, and so many guards with weapons far more lethal than the small daggers they all wore on their hips, but Kuroo wouldn’t listen. Kenma had begged him not to try, but it ended up not mattering anyway. 

. “Which one of you got careless while getting your cock sucked hmm?” the caravan master had roared, furious, while dragging the poor boy’s body out of the wagon and into the muck. “Well I hop it was worth it, I’m not running a free fucking brothel, and your cocks just cost me 2500 pieces.” He tossed the bloody knife to the ground as well, “Get this mess cleaned up and this body out of my sight.”

Kenma and Kuroo had been watching, horrified, and as the caravan master turned away, he met their gaze, side stepping, to stroke his fingers against Kuroo’s cheek. “Lucky kitten. No more freebies in this caravan. Maybe now Kozume will finally leave your side, hmm? It's a little hard to enjoy time with you when his beady little eyes are watching your every move. No wonder the men preferred Daisuke,” he looked back at the sprawled body of the young man behind him, eyes open and staring blankly at the night sky above, “not that it did him much good in the end.” 

He turned to march away, before thinking better of it, calling back to his guards one more time, “When you’re done with that mess, move the kitten up front. Maybe a nice new cage can keep him safe from your carelessness. We don’t need him getting any ideas.”

And so Kuroo was taken away from Kenma, Kenma and the others left to scrub fruitlessly at the wooden floor of their wagon, stained dark with Daisuke’s blood. Kenma tried to sleep, he did, but every time he closed his eyes, it was Kuroo’s wrists that were slit, Kuroo’s eyes staring listlessly, unblinking at the night sky. Kuroo is the strongest person Kenma knows, but everyone has a breaking point, and surely, after everything, Kuroo would reach his soon. He felt panic creeping into his chest, the same tight feeling he had the first time they took Kuroo from him, so many years ago now. 

Kenma found himself quietly slipping past the wagon covering and making his way towards the front of the caravan, moving silently past sleeping slaves and inattentive guards. He found Kuroo, curled up in a small, uncovered cage, raised up on the back of a cart. It was too dark to make out much of Kuroo’s features, but Kuroo jumped with a start when Kenma’s hand slipped through the bars to find his shoulder. 

“Kenma?” Kuroo croaked, wonder in his voice tainted by the tell-tale roughness that indicated he’d been crying.

“I… I couldn’t,” Kenma started.

“Hey!” Kenma startled as they were approached by a guard, tall, with dark hair pushed back from a broad forehead. “What are you two doing? Are you dumb? Do you want to be caught by Kiyoshi?”

Neither Kenma or Kuroo spoke, only lacing their fingers more tightly together through the cage bars. Kenma recognized this guard, as he was one of the few who had never tried to touch Kuroo, or Daisuke, sometimes distracting the more aggressive guards with card games and drinks. 

After several beats of silence, the guard sighed. “Fine. But it wasn’t me who saw you, or let you in.”

“Let me in?” Kenma questioned, and then the guard reached for the heavy ring of keys along his waist, unlocking the metal padlock that kept the cage.

“Well, get in. Isn’t that what you came up here for?”

Kenma paused, hesitating for only a second before scrambling into the cage with Kuroo. “We’ll only keep it locked at night, I don’t think you being here will be a problem. Most of us find your little friendship,” the guard paused and Kenma wondered what word he would use to describe the strange relationship between himself and Kuroo. Exploitable? Pathetic? Sometimes even the word friendship felt like both too much and not enough. “...Cute. Just don’t tell anyone I told you so, or let you in here tonight.”

Kenma nodded, “Yes… sir. Thank you.”

“It’s Yoshiki,” the guard said, hesitating, “you can call me Yoshiki.”

“Thank you, Yoshiki.”

Yoshiki nodded, walking away and disappearing into the dark. Kenma felt Kuroo’s arms wrap around him. “Thank you,” Kuroo said, “I couldn’t sleep. I’m used to having you here.”

“Mmm,” Kenma hummed, letting the “me too” die on his lips. Even here Kuroo was braver. “I figured.”

“That’s my Kenma,” Kuroo mumbled, face nuzzled into Kenma’s hair, “always my hero.”

Kenma’s insides felt cold as he suppressed a laugh. Kenma had never managed to be Kuroo’s hero, not in any way that mattered, but perhaps one day he’d find the courage. Until then, he’d let himself relax into Kuroo’s hold, allowing the tight feeling in his chest to loosen, and his eyes to fall shut as he willed himself into an uneasy slumber that night. 

Now, they both occupied the too small cage at the front of the caravan, and have remained mostly unbothered by the caravan master and guards who look at the two indulgently as they sleep cramped together, sometimes whispering to each other about their pretty kitten and his loyal dog, always at his side. But Kenma isn’t bothered by what they say, not when he’s allowed to keep an eye on Kuroo. 

As he approaches their cage now, Kenma spies Kuroo lying on his back, arm over his face, still naked and shivering in the dreary drizzling weather, caked in mud and other substances Kenma would rather not think about. He climbs into the cart, and wordlessly begins to pull off his own shirt to give to the naked man. 

“No Kenma,” says Kuroo, arm not moving from its position covering his eyes, “I’m filthy. We aren’t ruining your shirt, and I’m not that cold.” 

Kuroo is that cold, Kenma can tell, but he allows his shirt to fall back into place over his torso. There is no one more stubborn than Kuroo, and arguing about it would just make Kuroo more upset, something Kenma was unwilling to do considering the conversation he wanted to have. So instead he curls beside him, willing what little body heat he had to provide some comfort to the taller man. 

“That was incredibly stupid you know,” Kenma said, ducking his face into Kuroo’s shoulder, “biting him, I mean.”

He feels Kuroo freeze under him. 

“What was I meant to do Kenma? Let myself be sold? Let us be separated?”

“Maybe,” Kenma says, turning away, “this isn’t sustainable. We’ve been lucky so far but the chances of finding another household interested in us both is… slim at best.” The words hurt on their way out, so Kenma knows they are true. Especially as a plague continues to ravage the continent, there was a slimmer chance every day they’d be picked up by the same household, and Kenma doesn’t think they’d survive another year in the caravans.

“So then,” Kuroo starts, sounding nervous, “We’ll try something else, we’ll try to escape again, or-”

“No.”

“Kenma!”

“No Kuroo!,” Kenma says, “It’s not worth the risk. We’ll be in the city next, there will be plenty of buyers, just… find one who looks decent and try to get sold. We can’t live like this anymore Kuroo, especially not if they are starving you!”

“Is that really what you want for me Kemna?" Kuroo says, disbelief crowding his voice, "Where you think I belong? With a “nice” master, who still fucks me, but not too often or too rough?”

No. That’s not what Kenma wants for him. Kenma wants to see Kuroo standing tall, and proud, and laughing. Kenma wants to feed Kuroo until he is strong again, strapped with the same muscles he had when they were 16, which now feels like a lifetime ago. He wants him outside with the sun reflecting in his hair, tending to a little garden just because he likes it and he wants to, all while Kenma watches from the window of a little house they live in together. Kenma wants to watch as Kuroo waves and makes small talk with every passerby, confident in a freedom he’s never had before, safe, with Kenma at his side, always. That was the future Kenma had been planning to give to Kuroo since he was 6 years old. But things change.

“What’s the alternative Kuroo?” Kenma says, “more days like today? How many more days like today do you really have in you?”

“As many as it takes,” Kuroo bites out, “as long as you are with me.” Kenma wants to believe him, but he closes his eyes and sees Daisuke, slit from wrists to elbow, bleeding out in their little covered wagon. There is only so much a person can take, and sometimes Kenma feels like he could break just from the watching of it. If separating is what it takes to save Kuroo, Kenma will do it in a heartbeat, even though he can’t imagine breathing without Kuroo by his side. 

“Stop, Kuroo.”

“Kenma, please.”

“Stop.” And, like always, Kuroo stops. They silently fold back into one another, ignoring the cold, and the hurt, and the hunger. Kenma can feel Kuroo’s nose, pressing into his hair, breathing deep, and tries not to wonder how many more times they will get to center around each other like this. How many more times he will curl into Kuroo’s thin chest and listen to his stuttered breathing, lost in the comforting, but faulty idea that they could do anything at all to protect each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! There it is!
> 
> Please let me know if you are interested in this story continuing, it will definitely motivate me to write faster, as right now I am just writing it indulgently for myself.


	2. Bokuto II & Kenma II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto meets Kuroo and Kenma. Kenma meets an old friend who, for some reason, is tagging along with the Lord of Aoba Johsai.

Bokuto is sitting curled up against the wheel of a wagon, watching the ebb and flow of the caravan’s movement in the aftermath of the afternoon’s events. The guards were jovial, knocking elbows with each other and laughing raucously, but Bokuto had felt sick to his stomach when he watched the dark haired young man be dragged to his cage at the front of the caravan procession. The guards began circling the wagons around the camp as they did every night, and normally Bokuto was thankful for the small reprieve of the biting wind they provided, but tonight it made him feel all the more unsettled, especially as he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the two men huddled together in the cage. 

It was a cruel thing, small, with thick iron bars along the sides and roof, leaving its inhabitants completely exposed to the elements. Bokuto shudders. For all of his aching muddied feet and exhaustion, he would rather walk a hundred more miles than find himself in that cage, trapped and on display like the pinned butterflies that Bokuto used to see in the Fukurodani estate’s library. Bokuto stares now, watching the two inside curl into each other in quiet conversation. 

“Dinner.”

Bokuto jumps, startled. In front of his face is a hunk of bread, held out by one of the mercenary guards, the only one of whom Bokuto knows by name, because he is the only one who had bothered to speak to Bokuto directly. His name is Yoshiki, and sometimes when he was packing up the caravans supplies, his long shirt sleeves would ride up, and Bokuto would catch a glimpse of more than one sharp, rough tattoo that Bokuto knew were associated with various Gladiator schools in the east. Bokuto had never met a free gladiator before Yoshiki, as it was rare for a gladiator to live long enough to earn his freedom. Most of the other guards tried to keep their distance, regarding him with a careful wariness, and Bokuto often saw subtle ways Yoshiki kept the others in line when they were feeling particularly rowdy or cruel. 

“Thank you.” Bokuto takes the offered bread, biting tentatively through the hard stale crust, and his eyes return back to the caged men. The sun was setting, quickly, and now they were just a dark silhouette against the streaky red and orange sky behind them. 

Bokuto hears a sigh. “That’s Kuroo. And Kenma Kozume, the blonde one. He has a proper surname like a freedman and Kuroo won’t let anyone forget it.”

“Ok.” Bokuto says. 

“They get in trouble every fucking day of the week,” Yoshiki does not sound amused, not laughing and jovial like the other guards and now Bokuto is thinking on it, while Bokuto himself was decidedly not looking at the afternoon’s events, he is pretty certain Yoshiki was hanging behind with the other slaves, back turned to activities of the caravan master and two slaves. “That shit Kuroo pulled today, it’s typical”

“Ok.” Bokuto says. 

“They say they were captured in a border raid or something, and haven’t been separated since,” Yoshiki continues, eyes rolling, “but who the fuck knows.” 

Bokuto fiddles with his bread, pulling it apart in his hands, and he begins chewing thoughtfully on another bite. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Bokuto says, forcing a smile at Yoshiki, “But I don’t really see what that has to do with me. Are you bored, Yoshiki? Need someone to talk to?”

Yoshiki grunts, running his hands through the front of his hair. 

“You’re new,” he says, “and I can’t imagine you’ve been in the caravans long. You are young, healthy, and strong.”

Bokuto doesn’t look Yoshiki in the eyes when he sighs out, “Long enough.”

Three months. Three months since Lord Yamiji had passed and the Fukorodani estate had cleared out almost overnight. Bokuto, along with all of the rest of Lord Yamiji’s property was confiscated by the crown and sold at auction for a fraction of what he should have been worth. Three months since he hunted with Akinori. Three months since he drank too much ale at dinner and sang loud, bawdy tunes with Yamato and his other noble friends. Three months since he watched Akaashi set off from the estate on his white mare, without so much as a goodbye.Three months of a cold and brutal winter only now beginning to thaw into a wet spring. 

But Bokuto knows three months isn’t so long. That once winter thaws, and the plague quiets, he we be sold to another estate, where his life may never again be filled with the warm contentedness he found surrounded by his friends on the Fukurodani grounds, but maybe he’d be lucky enough to have a decent pair of shoes and roof over him at night. 

There are worse things than a life in the fields. Bokuto knows this, and he thinks of some of the older, toothless slaves around him, bought and sold at cheap markets along roadsides continuously over the last few decades, never in a place long enough to call somewhere home. He thinks of the handful of pregnant mothers travelling with the caravan, of how their babes will be ripped from them and sold, given new names and never seen again. He thinks of how Kuroo looked, standing in front of the merchant as he was appraised, the hidden tremble in his knees as the man’s eyes and riding crop traced over his naked form. He thinks of the panicked, halted gasp Kenma released when the merchant called for a knife. 

In the last three months Bokuto had more than once wished for company. Wished that he had Yamato’s calm demeanor beside him, Haruki’s energetic presence, or Akaashi’s careful handling. The thoughts made him feel guilty, he would never want his friends to be this cold, this tired, or this hungry, but despite this he had yearned for someone at his side. Watching Kuroo and Kenma though, Bokuto finds himself glad he is alone. He does not think he could stomach being tied to someone in this horrible place. 

Bokuto is still watching the two as the sun sets behind them. The temperature is dropping with the setting of the sun, and the deep chill set into all their bones digs in deeper. 

Yoshiki sees his eyeline, and continues, “You seem like a good kid Bokuto, and hopefully you are smart enough to stay out of trouble. Once summer comes people will be able to spend a little more. You’ll get snatched up, so just keep your head down and you’ll be fine.”

“Me? Make trouble,” Bokuto forces another grin and tries to remember what it felt like when he did smile freely, “Never, Yoshiki.”

“Good. Because you saw where trouble got Kuroo,” Yoshiki makes a noise in his throat, short and angry, “They do all sorts of dumb shit to avoid being split up. Fucking lot of good it’s done them so far. They’ll end up in the silver mines if the caravan master can’t get back what he paid for them. Or dead before then.” 

Bokuto looks away, chewing and swallowing his last piece of stale bread slowly, willing his shoulders to relax. 

“Just--” Yoshiki starts, uncomfortable and fisting his hand in his hair, “It's not-- look, it's just a warning I give all of the new ones. They- They are a warning. You don’t want to end up like that.”

Bokuto nods solemnly, eyes tracking back to the iron cage, “Are you going to leave him like that all night?” 

Yoshiki stares at him. 

“It’s just. He really could die,” Bokuto continues, “from exposure. With the whole being naked thing.” 

“You see,” Yoshiki sighs, shaking his head and turning away from Bokuto to cross the camp. “This is what I mean by trouble.”  
But a half an hour later, when the camp chores are complete, the caravan master has retired to his wagon and bed, and the guards are setting up their own bedrolls and small fires around the outside of the circled wagons, Bokuto hears footsteps approaching next to him. He turns and sees Yoshiki, on his feet and avoiding eye contact with Bokuto as he drops a small pile of items at Bokuto’s side. 

“Kozume probably won’t let you near them,” Yoshiki says. 

“Ok.” Bokuto says. Yoshiki has dropped a small bundle of fabric, another hard chunk of bread, and a corked carafe of water. 

“You can- You can take that to them if you want.” Yoshiki says, “It’s pants and- and I honestly can’t remember the last time Kuroo ate or had water. But I can’t-” Yoshiki stops. 

“Ok.” And Bokuto stares at the little bundle at his feet and back where he knows the two men are leaning on each other. He can’t make out even their silhouettes even more, the night too dark. 

“You don’t have to,” Yoshiki hesitates, “if that bastard starts to associate you with the two of them, you’re done for. But if you want to-”

“I want to,” and Bokuto is surprised that he does. He hasn’t felt much these past few months at all, besides the low-level despondency he had been consumed by since Lord Yoshiki’s death and Akaashi’s departure. The dreary gray days had all blended into one another, and without a well placed remark or shoulder clap from any of his friends to pull him through, Bokuto let himself succumb to the foggy nothingness that encroached into his mind. “Want” had been a foreign concept these last few months, but right now, more than anything Bokuto wanted to approach these two men. To offer them the scarce clothing, food and comfort he could.

He thinks back to this afternoon, to Kuroo’s blood red lipstick smeared across his challenging smirk as he bit, and spit and endured. To Kenma’s golden eyes, their unwavering expression and his support for his friend. And that red and that gold bursts through the oppressive gray fog, and for the first time in three months when he looks towards the two men huddled in their iron cage, he feels something other than the cold nothing that has plagued his mind. He feels admiration, and with a sudden and astonishing clarity, he comes to a realization.

They’re the bravest thing he had ever seen. 

“Thank you,” he moves to say to Yoshiki, but the man has already turned, walking away.

Bokuto rises, gathering the small bundle of supplies Yoshiki dropped, and he begins his way across the camp. The ground is wet from the rain, and the rearranging of the wagons has left deep ruts of soft, overturned mud and Bokuto’s feet squelch as he approaches the wagon. When he is close enough to once again see their forms in the darkness, he can catch the murmurs of a whispered conservation, before both men quiet, heads turning to look up at Bokuto at the exact same time. Bokuto stops. 

In the light of the moon, Kenma’s gold eyes are eerie, staring at Bokuto with that same expressionless face he wore in the afternoon. The two of them shift, immediately, and nearly unnoticeably, creating space between them where there was none before. 

“I have pants,” Bokuto says. He holds up the bundle of fabric for them to see. When neither of them reply, Bokuto takes a step closer. It’s hardly a movement at all, but still, Bokuto can see Kuroo’s hands tighten on the bars of the cage. “Just pants. And some bread and water.”

Kenma’s eyes shift from Bokuto to Kuroo, as he treats his friend to a pointed look. Kuroo meets Kenma’s gaze, and gives an almost imperceptible nod. 

“What do you want?” Kuroo asks. His voice is rough and low, an unmistakable wariness in his tone. 

Bokuto takes another step forward. “Nothing. It’s just. You’ve got to be cold and this won’t do much but it’s something.” 

Another step, and another. Bokuto thinks about the time Akinori took him into the mountains to find a lost horse. They had found her with an injured back leg, her having been attacked by one of the wolves that roamed the northern edges of the Fukurodani estate. The horse had been terrified, bucking and neighing, kicking up on her injured leg every time Bokuto drew near. Bokuto remembers Akinori speaking in his soft, steady voice, telling stories just to have something to say as he approached poor thing. It was hours before Akinori was able to run his gentle hands through her tangled mane, pat her flank, and bandage her leg well enough to begin the trek home. He never stopped speaking the entire time, and sometimes Bokuto wondered if it was the calm tone of his voice, of if maybe the horse really wanted to hear how Akinori’s story ended. 

“I- Do you want them?” Bokuto asks.

“The master will see you,” Kenma says, “Is this some kind of trap?”

Bokuto looks over his shoulder. The caravan master had retired to his tent sometime ago, and the guards were either patrolling around the outer edge of the ring of wagons, or settled together around a small fire on the other edge of camp. Bokuto knew that they were basically invisible in the surrounding darkness. “It’s okay,” he says, “Nobody is watching, I can just pass it through the-”

Bokuto starts forward, reaching out towards the cage and accidentally brushing up against Kuroo’s hands still clutching at the bars. 

“Don’t!” Kenma says, sharp and commanding. Bokuto had never heard another slave speak like that. “Don’t touch him. Give it to me.” Kenma leans forward, reaching his hands through the bars, and Bokuto carefully places the bundle into his outstretched hands. Bokuto takes a step back. 

Kenma unrolls the bundle carefully, glancing warily at the caravan master’s tent, as if he expects the man to come roaring at them at any moment. Kuroo glances at the campfire again, then locks eyes with Kenma. Some silent communication flickers between them- Bokuto can’t read it, their faces barely move- and then an attempt at a smile crosses Kuroo’s face. He rolls his shoulders forward, sitting up straighter and reaching for the small carafe of water. Kenma passes it to him, and Kuroo uncorks it and proceeds to dump half of it on his chest, scrubbing vigorously. 

“You moron,” Kenma hisses, grabbing the carafe back from Kuroo “that was for you to drink, idiot.”

“Give it back Kenma,” Kuroo says, scraping at the mud caked on his forearms, “I’m disgusting.”

“You’re dehydrated,” Kenma replies, “I think that’s a little more important.”

“C’mon, Kenma,” Kuroo says, “Please? I won’t be able to sleep like this.”

“No-”

“I can get more,” Bokuto interjects. Two heads flick towards him, and Bokuto is once again off put by their unintentional synchronization. “Yoshiki, he likes me. I can probably get more.”

There is silence, but after a moment Kenma nods in his direction. Bokuto sets off back through the mud, and sees Kenma reach forward and pour water over Kuroo’s lower back, hands coming forward to scrub at his exposed skin.

Yoshiki is standing slightly apart from the other guards, watching over the huddled, sleeping slaves while carving calmly at a small piece of wood. The other guards are talking and laughing round the campfire, and Bokuto hesitates. Just because Yoshiki brought him food and let him wander around camp doesn’t mean he can march up and demand water. So he stands, and waits, arms wrapped around himself against the bitingly cold wind, and thinks about how much more it must sting for Kuroo, now both naked and wet. 

Yoshiki finally looks up from his carving and crosses the space over the Bokuto. “They chase you away?”

Bokuto glances back at the cage, though he knows he can’t see much from this distance in the distance. “Can I have some water, please?” he asks.

Yoshiki stares at him and for a moment Bokuto is afraid he’ll say no, but instead he shakes his head and sighs, retrieving another carafe from the cart behind him. “I’ll tell you again, be careful,” Yoshiki grumbles, “and don’t get used to this.”

“Thank you,” Bokuto says, and he runs back to the cage.

Kenma is whispering fervently to Kuroo as they shift around, Kuroo now clean and struggling to maneuver his long legs into the pants with their limited space. They both look up again when Bokuto approaches, and it's obvious from their expression they didn’t expect Bokuto to come back at all.

“More water,” Bokuto says, careful this time to stick to Kenma’s half of the cage as he offers it towards them. Kenma reaches out and snatches it from him, pressing it, and the stale bread into Kuroo’s hands. Kuroo has finally managed to bring the pants up around his waist, and there is immediately a sense of calm about him that was absent before. He takes the stale hunk of bread and breaks it, attempting to press half of it back into Kenma’s hands.

“Did they hit you in the head too?” Kenma says, refusing to take the offered bread, “I already ate, that’s for you.”

“Habits,” Kuroo hums, before tucking into the stale bread with a wide smile. He eats voraciously, tearing large bites from the small loaf, and alternating with loud gulps of the fresh water. Kenma watches him attentively and for a moment the neutral expression breaks and shows something close to fondness. Bokuto shifts his weight, resulting in another squelching sound as the mud around him moves, and Kenma’s glance returns to Bokuto. 

“You can go now,” Kenma says, expression switching to a scowl, arms coming up to cover his chest.

“That’s not very nice Kenma,” Kuroo says around the bread in his mouth, hand coming up to ruffle the two-toned hair. “Be nice.”

Kenma says nothing, just sighs and leans closer to Kuroo, still eyeing Bokuto warily.

“What’s your name?” 

It takes a second for Bokuto to realize it was Kenma who had spoken, his golden eyes meeting Bokuto’s with an impossible intensity. “Bokuto,” he says.

“Bokuto,” says Kenma. “Thanks.”

Bokuto says, “You’re welcome,” as calmly as he can manage. Then he turns and walks away, finds a spot to curl up and attempt to slip into sleep, while wondering why exactly his heart is beating quite so fast.

The caravan rolls out the next morning, and a glance at the sky has Kenma surprised. It’s a blessedly cloudless day, and Kenma can feel the warmth of the rising sun on his face. He is thankful. Kuroo had shivered all night, despite the pants and his best efforts to not like Kenma he was cold. Kenma swears he could hear his teeth chattering in the midst of their whispered conversations, but the sun was a good sign. Spring would be starting in earnest soon, the cold cruel winter just a memory. Spring also meant open pocketbooks and based on the caravan’s resolved march North, they would be hitting larger cities soon. Maybe someone would buy the two of them, and Kenma’s warning conversation to Kuroo the night before could prove to be unnecessary. 

Kuroo is still leaning back against his preferred corner of their small cage, eyes closed and arms tucked behind his head in a makeshift pillow. The wheels of the cart rumble over rocks and mud, and it is by no means a smooth ride, but Kuroo looks at ease. Not asleep, but relaxed, the warm light from the sun casting an almost unearthly glow over his golden skin. 

Kuroo really is beautiful, and Kenma takes a moment to hate himself for the thought. He lets his eyes roam over Kuroo’s black messy hair, his straight nose, his lips, a pretty, natural pink after scrubbing off the red stain from the night before. How the light that dappled through the iron bars broke through to highlight his collarbones and long neck. He oftentimes wishes his friend was a little less pretty, not that it started because Kuroo was much to look at. No, Kuroo had been damned back when he was still an awkward, gangly teenager, and not in the name of desire, but punishment. It was Kuroo’s rotten luck he grew so suited for the role they gave him. As it is, it often seems that Kuroo grows prettier every day, and Kenma hates it. 

He hates that sometimes he looks at his friend and sees the same thing that so many men see when they look at Kuroo. That he looks at Kuroo and sees his pretty hair, golden skin, and the dip above his collarbones, then feels an instinctual want that turns Kenma’s stomach, churning and sour. Then, for Kenma, the image distorts, until he also sees every hand that has ever touched Kuroo. Or at least, every hand that Kenma has ever watched touched him, and even that’s an inarticulable amount too many. So sometimes he closes his eyes and tries to replace it all. See instead Kuroo’s pink lips curled in the rakish grin he would throw to Kenma when they were children. See his dark, thick hair, falling away from his forehead when he was hanging upside down from the old apple tree in the Kozume’s back garden. 

Kenma closes his eyes and begins to hum. A fun little tune, about a fox and a swan, and Kenma misses playing it at his old piano while Kuroo sang loudly, off-key, with the dirty revised lyrics he’d come up with himself. 

“What are you humming?”

Kenma jerks forward, opening his eyes to see the man from last night walking next to their cage. His wrists are shackled in the same manner all of the slaves’ are when travelling, but he has broken apart from the rest of the marching order and is keeping pace with their mule-pulled cart.

“What are you doing?” Kenma asks.

Bokuto shrugs, but doesn’t meet Kenma’s eyes. “Just walking,” he says.

“Well, walk somewhere else,” Kenma says.

“Ah-Ah Kenma,” Kuroo mumbles, eyes still shut, posture unchanged. He must still be tired. Kenma wonders how much sleep he managed last night. How it is even possible for Kuroo to sleep, when Kenma himself is plagued with nightmares of events he wasn’t even the one to experience. “Be nice,” Kuroo says, “Bokuto was kind enough to help us out yesterday, there’s no need to bite.”

“From what I saw, you’re the one who bites,” Bokuto says, a grin crossing his face. It doesn’t look cruel but-

“It’s not fucking funny,” Kenma snarls. 

Bokuto raises his hands in a placating gesture, but Kuroo laughs, out loud, short and bright. Bokuto’s eyes meet Kuroo, and matching tentative smiles cross their faces. 

“I heard the guards talking,” Bokuto says, “Earlier when we were packing up, they were talking about where we are going.” 

“Towards the city, we know,” Kenma interjects. 

“No, actually, we’re making a stop before that.” Bokuto reaches his arm up in a casual stretch, rolling his neck and shoulder as he continues in his march along their cart. “There’s a market, in a small town on the way, we’ll be there by late afternoon. Lots of people have been wiped out by the plague, so they need lots of slaves to work the farms.”

“Well seeing as neither of us do that,” Kenma says, “Why are you telling us this?” His voice is flat, and it’s barely a question at all. 

“You don’t think there’s a household somewhere there that will be looking for some steward-type management?” Bokuto says. He keeps his voice even, but Kenma can see an urgency in his eyes. “I heard what the caravan master said, you’re educated, you can read and do maths. That’s really rare for a slave, I’m surprised you’ve spent this much time in the caravan at all.”

It was only due to his and Kuroo’s saboteur efforts that that was the case. The two of them had ruined a lot of sales, more than even the caravan master knew about. Kenma was very good at playing dumb, and Kuroo was adept at causing a distracting ruckus. 

The closest had been when an orchestra had wanted to buy Kenma. Came all the way to the outskirts of town to the market, their fine clothes getting ruined in the rain and mud. They were uncomfortable, it was obvious in their gait and their faces. Orchestra’s didn’t normally run on slave-labour, but the owner had seen Kenma play at his previous master’s party, and when he heard the old man died, he tracked him down from the auction to this caravan, and sent a pair of scouts to audition and purchase him. They handed him a violin. At that point Kenma had not touched a violin in months, and was desperately missing the weight of the bow in his hand and vibration of the strings under his fingers. This was his chance, he could join the orchestra, likely where he would’ve ended up anyway if not for the raid on his father’s farm. He could play music, and maybe one day earn his freedom, and then he could come back and-- It was then that his eyes found Kuroo, who had a wide grin on his face. He shot Kenma a double thumbs up, and Kenma could see the words he mouthed. 

“Good luck!” Kuroo had whispered at him, pride in his eyes.

Kenma took a breath, subtly fiddled with the tuning pegs, then placed the violin under his chin. He dragged the bow across the strings, releasing a high-pitched horrendous whine, with enough force he snapped every one of the over-tightened strings. 

The scouts had left, violin in tow, and Kenma murmured some excuse to the caravan master blaming the violin they gave him. The caravan master squinted at him, disbelieving, and Kuroo had taken the hit for him then too, a heavy wallop across his face that caused him to bite the inside of his cheek and spit blood.

Kuroo had been furious. Not because of the resulting backhand, but because Kenma had ruined the best opportunity he’d been given in the four years they’d been enslaved together. He didn’t speak to Kenma for three days, finally opening his mouth when they were both exhausted from the lack of sleep to ask Kenma “Why?” 

But Kenma didn’t have an answer for him then.

“It’s none of your business,” Kenma says now to Bokuto, “and I don’t see why you would be concerned.” 

Bokuto shrugs non-committedly, and before Kenma can find another biting remark to get him to leave, Kuroo interjects.

“Hey,” Kuroo has pitched himself forward, leaning towards Bokuto, as close as he can get to the walking man with the bars between them, “Thanks again for last night, buddy. I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” Kenma bites out. Kuroo doesn’t think before he speaks, and neither of them know this Bokuto well enough to guess what the man would think owing him entails. 

“You really don’t,” Bokuto says, “It wasn’t… transactional. If you want to thank anyone, thank Yoshiki, he’s the one who gave me the extra supplies.”

Kenma falls quiet after that, as the other two men fall into an easy conversation. Kenma used to envy it, the effortless way Kuroo could make friends with anyone, with his charming smile and trusting nature. That openness just seems dangerous to Kenma now, but Bokuto has seemed harmless enough this far, and Kenma doesn’t catch his eyes wandering over Kuroo in any way he’d deem unsavory. 

Bokuto doesn’t attempt to talk to Kenma for the rest of the morning. At first Kenma thinks he is completely lost in his conversation with Kuroo, but he notices how Bokuto keeps an eye on the back of the caravan master’s covered wagon, slowing his pace and falling back every time the flap at the entrance to the wagon stirs with movement. The caravan master peeks out a few times over the hours of travel, but whenever his eyes find Kuroo and Kenma’s cart, Bokuto is far enough behind, walking slightly ahead of the other slaves, but not enough to draw suspicion.

Yoshiki seems to notice though, and when they break for lunch, after Kenma is taken from the cage, fed, then returned, Bokuto returns with an extra hunk of bread he places carefully into Kenma’s hands. “For Kuroo,” he says, and Kenma wonders why Bokuto didn’t hand it to Kuroo instead, before remembering his own sharp command “Don’t touch him!” the night before. 

“Quick,” says Bokuto, standing up straight and tall, stretching his arms languidly to give them more cover, “Eat if before they see.”

Kuroo wolfs down the bread in three big bites. He had always eaten that way, quick and messy, with altogether too many sounds that Kenma would find disgusting if not for the comfort in the familiarity. “Yoshiki really does like you,” Kuroo remarked, “what did you do because some of those guards… really like me too, but they’ve never handed me extra food.”

“He’s giving it to me for you,” Bokuto says. “Yoshiki is alright, I think he worries about you two, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

Kenma thinks back to their first night in the small uncovered cage, and remembers Yoshiki’s permissiveness, how he let Kenma and Kuroo stay together. He was a guard, yes, but Kenma had seen the edges of some suspiciously gladiator-esque tattoos under his long sleeves.

Gladiators were different, but they were still slaves, and Kenma doesn’t understand how one could live on the other side of it and still pursue a career as a caravan guard. Though, he guesses there are few options for few gladiators who do manage to buy their freedom. Most of the public was terrified of them, and rightfully so. To live long enough in the gladiator schools to earn one’s freedom, you had to be very good at surviving, and for gladiators that meant being very good at killing. Kenma suppresses a shudder, but Yoshiki had always been, if not nice, at least not cruel. And if he was helping Kuroo, Kenma wouldn’t stick his nose up at it. 

The caravan travels a few more hours. Bokuto is beginning to slow down besides them, feet undoubtedly aching, but at least the day has been warm and dry. There are farms and fields around them now, and the road is wider, and more well worn than those they’d been travelling on recently. It is early spring, and there should be men in the fields, turning over the earth for planting, but most are empty and there is no smoke rising from any of the houses. The people they do see watch them pass with flat, suspicious eyes. There are a few kids, but instead of jeering and chasing like children normally do, they watch silently as the caravan passes.

“Plague,” Kuroo says.

“Yeah,” says Bokuto. They all know the signs, and had been seeing them all winter. 

The caravan stops in the late afternoon, and Bokuto bustles off to help set up with the rest of the marching slaves. Kenma guesses they aren’t far from a village, and a cold knot of fear forms in his stomach as he thinks about the market, about the possibility of facing auction again. Stripped naked, separated from Kuroo, and paraded about while buyers poke and prod and laugh. 

The guards begin moving slaves, sorting them into groups and shackling them together. The caravan master approaches their cage with three guards in tow. 

He eyes them appraisingly. “Grab Kozume and put him with the other specialties,” he says, “Get a rag and knock out our kitten, today is too important to have him mucking things up.”

Kenma is grabbed and pulled roughly out of the cage, shackles attached to his wrist, but as he is being moved away, another guard returns with a chloroform soaked rag. Kuroo is pressed up against the corner of the cage, unmoving despite their orders to come forward. There is fear in his eyes when they look up and meet with Kenma’s. Kuroo hates being drugged.

“I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about tonight kitten,” one guard says with a laugh, “Folks around here are looking for men to plow the fields, not pretty kittens useless for everything but fucking.”

“But you never know,” the caravan master interjects with a laugh, “maybe you’ll wake up from your sleep in a nice new house, with a nice fat cock inside you, wouldn’t that be nice? You’re much more pleasant when you’re unconscious, I’ll probably have better luck selling you knocked out.”

The master hits the bars of the cage, and Kuroo startles, two guards reaching in to grab him and pull him forward, and Kenma knows he is about the fight, about to spit, and pull and say something he shouldn’t, and Kenma thinks desperately, “God, Kuroo, don’t!”

And maybe that actually do have telepathy, something their cook joked about with a disapproving laugh when they were young, because Kuroo stops. The rag is placed over his mouth and nose, and he struggles a little, but Kenma can tell he’s fighting the urge to do more as he goes limp in the large guards hold. 

Kenma is led away, shackled between the silent ballerina and old stableman. The market is still in the process of being set up, and only a few locals are drifting around the outskirts, waiting for the guards to let them in to get a good look, when an enormous, tasteless carriage rattles past.

It is white, with teal-painted metalwork, and a coat of arms painted on the door, of a knight’s helm and five large, blooming roses. It rumbles to a stop a little further down the road, and Kenma hears a high-pitched, male voice trill, “Oh Iwa, must we! You know I hate these things.”

The owner, obviously a gentleman, sporting high white, pristine riding boots that have never been near a horse, and a fancy tailored jacket in a garish blue- jumps down from the carriage and strides past the flummoxed guards, straight into the ring between the wagons where the slaves are being herded into somewhat of a display.

“Yes, Oikawa, we must. We’ve lost half our plantation boys to this damn plague” following behind him is a broad, handsome, bored looking man, dressed conservatively but just a finely. 

“It’s just always so dirty!” the flamboyant man frowns, glaring at the dirt as though it had personally offended him and his boots. “Oh well, we do what we must. Who is charge here?” he demands. 

All the slaves try not to stare as the caravan master lights up, smelling money, and rushes to greet the lord with an exaggerated bow. The two men are followed by a short, unassuming man in a bowler hat with a notepad. The caravan master bows and scrapes to a ridiculous degree, but the flamboyant man, Oikawa, the broader one had called him, seemed to be enjoying it with a wide smile on his face, and only cuts him off with the broad man next to him coughs and nudges him with an elbow. 

“Yes, yes,” says the flamboyant lord. “Well, let’s make it quick. As we’ve said, the plague has hit my plantation boys hard and I’m in need of a bulk replacement. What have you got”

The caravan master pauses, eyes sparkling with the promise of a profit, as he says with barely suppressed glee, “One hundred and fifteen healthy adult males, Lord Oikawa, ideal for unskilled labor, plus a couple more more educated slaves perfectly suited for house positions. And around a dozen females, you can examine for yourself-”

“I’ll take the lot,” says Oikawa, and bares his teeth at the caravan master in an unsavory grin, “Or not- I know your type. My man Yaku will look them over for me, in case you’ve miscounted, hmm? And in the meantime, you, Iwazuimi and I can talk batch prices.”

The caravan master hides his disappointment well, his face barely quivers as he sees his profits sink, and Kenma thinks he hears Yoshiki chuckle meanly. Lord Oikawa raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and the master claps his hands and a few guards bring over three stools and a table for the negotiations.

The man with the notebook makes his way methodically through the rows of chained slaves, checking each one for injuries or weakness. Kenma watches as Bokuto is examined, his teeth checked, his feet raised. The man continues, making his way through the rows of field slaves before reaching Kenma’s row. The stableman is looked over, and he rambles off his spiel, how is he good with horses, managed a stable for years, how he looks old, but is experienced, and the man with the notebook nods the whole way through.

When he gets to Kenma, he walks around him twice, makes him pick up his feet, shaking his head when he sees the caked mud. “All right,” he mutters, “lets see your teeth kid.”

That’s when Kenma looks up- it’s impossible to not look at someone when they are checking your teeth, but Kenma’s seen some masters make slaves try- and that’s when he looks at Yaku properly for the first time, and he knows the brief, stunned moment of recognition is echoed on his own. 

Because it’s _Yaku._

Kenma _knows_ Yaku. They grew up on the outskirts of the same town, and shared a music teacher. Kenma’s played duets with Yaku, competed against him at piano competitions, and argued with him about music theory. Yaku came from a family of staunch abolitionists, and was never allowed to visit the Kozume estate, so Kenma and Kuroo would ride over to his home, where his mother would look at them both with sad, knowing eyes and cook large, filling meals for the both of them. Yaku was two years older than Kenma, was already performing with an orchestra and teaching younger kids when Kenma and Kuroo was taken, so why was he here. Yaku wasn’t anyone servant, especially not Lord Oikawa, who, Kenma realizes with a sick feeling, must be Lord Tooru Oikawa, Lord of the Aoba Johsai estate and essential prince of the Miyagi region, with a list of rumours surrounded him that was as long as he was tall. What the hell, thinks Kenma, is going on?

“Shit.” Yaku mutters. Then he takes a step back, and schools his face, shock and recognition replaced by the same bored look he wore when surveying the other slaves. “Bit small aren’t you?” he says, and Kenma is filled with a brief annoyance because Yaku is one to talk. “Got any special skills?”

“I’m- I’m a musician” Kenma says, unable to disguise the confusion in his voice, Yaku _knows_ that why is he- but Yaku gives him a small nearly undetectable nod. 

“A musician huh,” he says, “Any good.”

Kenma suppresses a snort. He’d beat Yaku at every competition they’d ever entered despite being two years younger. 

“Yes,” says Kenma, trying to not make it sound like a question. Yaku gives another small twitch of his head, so Kenma rattles off the instruments he can play, mentions that he can read, and write and do maths, and Yaku nods appraisingly the whole way through, as if this is new information. 

Yaku’s eyebrows shoot up, comically forced, and his voice raises “Hmm. Oikawa better take a look at you. My lord!” he calls.

It takes Oikawa a few moments to excuse himself from the negotiation table and amble languidly over. “What is it, Yaku?” he says. “Find something interesting?”

“This one says he is a musician sir, and educated too,” says Yaku.

“Really, how interesting,” says Oikawa, peering down at Kenma, who forgets, for a moment, not to meet the lord’s eyes. “What does he play.”

They begin to discuss him casually, listing off his possible features and flaws, the same way Kenma’s father used to talk about horses. This was the one part Kenma had never gotten used to, and he wonders for a moment, if maybe Yaku didn’t recognize him at all, if the brief expression on his face was something else, not recognition. Kenma hadn’t seen his reflection in a long while, but he certainly felt like a completely different person than he was the last time he saw Yaku. Maybe he looked like a completely different person too. The thought ends though when he notices that Yaku and Oikawa aren’t aren’t meeting each other’s eyes at all, they are in fact watching each others’ hands instead, hands that are moving almost imperceptibly in a flicker of sign and counter-sign. 

Kenma’s father had tried to teach him once, before he’d given up on ever getting Kenma truly interested in hunting. He taught Kenma a few simple signs, “So we can talk without talking, Kenma, we won’t scare off any deer” but Kuroo was always better at remembering them and flicking his fingers in the subtle little signals. He’d never seen anyone sign so fast and so fluently though, not even his father and his friends, so Kenma catched nearly nothing of the silent conversation, too distracted by the sound of their voices talking about something else entirely.

Finally, Yaku’s hands move in an emphatic sign Kenma is pretty sure means NOW, and Oikawa nods, carelessly calling out. “Iwa dear!” he sing-songs over his shoulder, “Come look what Yaku found for us!”

Iwa strides over, bored resignation on his face, “He looks small,” he says, “Probably not much use in the fields, what’s this about?”

“He’s a musician, sir,” Yaku says. His hands flicker into sign. 

“Ah,” Iwa says, hands flickering back in countersign. He looks at Kenma appraisingly, “You want a little pet to trot out for guests Tooru? I guess we can buy him, we can take him back with us tomorrow morning-” both Yaku and Oikawa move their hands quickly into the sign for NOW again- “Or tonight. He can play us a lullaby at the inn, I know you hate sleeping in those dreadful places. Perhaps he can ease your mind.”

Oikawa pastes on a large grin, calling back to the caravan master who has been left abandoned at the negotiations table.”Well, that’s that,” says Oikawa with a chuckle, “We’re taking this one now, and I want you to hold the rest in reserve for me. I’ll come back and close the deal tomorrow morning.”

“Of course sir,” the master says faintly, snapping his fingers at a group of guards who begin to shuffle around camp, picking up the table and stools they’d dragged out later, and begin to unshackle the slaves from their lines.

Kenma sees Yaku out of the corner of his eye, running his eyes over the remaining slaves intently. He does this once, twice, then turns to look at Kenma with concern in his eyes. 

Before Kenma can blink he is being unshackled, shoved back into his clothes, and hustled towards Oikawa’s large, tasteless carriage, followed by Oikawa, Iwaizumi and Yaku. Only once the doors have been closed on the four of them does Oikawa collapse into Iwaizumi, undoing the tight buttons on his blue waistcoat, and letting out a tense held breath. Iwaizumi pulls Oikawa closer, placing a quick kiss on his temple and breathing into his hair. Yaku throws off his bowler hat, jamming it under the seat and turns to Kenma who’s sitting gingerly on the edge of the teal velvet upholstered seat, staring fixedly at the floor, not quite believing this is happening.

“God Kenma,” Yaku says, “How in the fuck did you end up there?”

Kenma opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, shaking his head. Where to even begin?

“Well at least we got you out,” continues Yaku, and ah, there it is, detestable pity in Yaku’s brown eyes, “You can- after you’re washed up and rested and fed, you can tell us. Only if you want!”

“Do you want to tell us what’s going on Yaku?” Oikawa says, and it’s only a shadow of the loud, grating tone he used at the market, tinged with an exhaustion he had hidden well. 

“I’m guessing you knew each other” Iwaizumi said, running his hand up Oikawa’s arm, pulling him to lean further into him.

“Yes, and he recognized me,” says Yaku. “Not that I wouldn’t have grabbed you out of there anyway, Kenma.” He turned to address Oikawa and Iwazuimi, “We grew up together, we played music together, he and his- well we were all friends. I left for a few weeks to play music in the city and when I got back the Kozume’s were gone. I thought they’d left the continent, but I guess not.”

Yaku turns back to Kenma, reaching out, then thinking better of it, hand hanging awkwardly in the air. “How long have you been there? What the fuck happened to you? And where is Kuroo?”

“Kuroo,” Kenma blurted out, “I- We have to go back for Kuroo.”

Yaku paused, confusion across his face, “He- Kuroo wasn’t there Kenma, after I saw you I looked for him. He wasn’t lined up, I checked twice. I thought it was strange that you two wouldn’t be together, did he get sold?”

“I-” Kenma paused, unsure of what to say to Yaku. “He’s. Kuroo’s not a field slave.”

“Neither are you, Kenma?” Yaku questions, “if he’s being marketed as skilled shouldn’t he have been next to you?”

“He’s not-” Kenma stutters, and he hates this, he’s never had to say it, and not to someone who knows them, who can guess how much Kenma would have had to fail in order to bring them to this point, “He’s not a house slave, or a field slave, he’s… He’s”

“Ok.” It is Oikawa who speaks, he and Iwaizumi sharing a knowing look. “I understand. This Kuroo he’s your friend?”

“They. They drugged him. He bit someone yesterday, when they were trying to buy him, and the caravan master wanted him out of the way for the market.”

Yaku snorts.

“It wasn’t funny,” Kenma bites out. Then realizes where he is and panics, backpedaling “I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, I’m sorry Kenma, I didn’t mean to-” Yaku says, “It’s not funny, there is nothing funny about the two of you being bought and sold, and I’m sorry I didn’t think about it, it’s just…” He pauses, looking at Kenma carefully, “It’s just such a Kuroo thing to do isn’t it?”

It really is. There’s silence in the carriage, and Kenma can see the moment it clicks for Yaku, what Kuroo has been enduring. A sick feeling crosses his face, and he pulls away from Kenma, settling in the opposite corner of the seat. “We’ll get him Kenma. Oikawa and Iwaizumi can go back tonight, make something up.”

“We’ll know what to specifically ask for,” Oikawa says carefully, “will he show him to us? If we ask for- well.”

“Probably,” Kenma says, “the bastard probably thinks it’s hilarious that we are separated, but he’ll do whatever makes him the most money.”

“Is he trustworthy?” Iwaizumi asks.

“I wouldn’t trust that man farther than I could throw him,” snorts Oikawa. He is looking at Kenma, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“No, I mean, will he keep his end of the bargain.” Iwaizumi asks, “will he wait till morning?”

“I don’t know,” Kenma says. “I think as long as another deal doesn’t come along, if- as long as he isn’t presented with a better option.”

Iwaizumi nods like that is the answer he was expecting. “Well, we’ll go back for your friend tonight. And we’ll hope the rest are still there come morning.”

“You’re really buying all of them?” Kenma asks.

“That’s the plan,” Oikawa sighs, stretching languidly like a cat, “Why is there someone else you need us to pick especially?”

“No,” Kenma says, thinking of Bokuto and his help and easy smile. The master probably wouldn’t find someone who he could pay more than the Lord of Aoba Johsai, and it would be an incredibly dumb decision to cross. Bokuto could wait till morning, Kenma didn’t want to ask for too much. “Just wondering.”

Kenma curls up, wrapping his arms around his knees, and sneaks another glance at Yaku. He is confused. Why is Yaku with Tooru Oikawa, pretending to be a steward, this far south? Why did he pick up Kenma, and what would happen to him and Kuroo?

“I-” Kenma starts, “Yaku, what-”

“Not right now Kenma,” Yaku says, shifting the small curtain so he could peak out the carriage window. “I promise things will be okay, we will get Kuroo, and everything will be fine. But you have to be a little patient with us. Things aren’t exactly safe right now.”

“Ok.” Kenma says, eyes returning to the carpeted floor of the carriage. 

Yaku sighs. “I promise, Kenma.”

“Ok.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of the ride, Oikawa’s eyes fluttering shut as he leaned against Iwaizumi. Kenma could feel Yaku’s eyes on him the entire ride, and he wonders how he could ever explain to this old friend everything that had happened in the last few years. Maybe he could leave that to Kuroo. Kuroo never had trouble articulating the things that left Kenma speechless, but for once Kenma could name the feeling in his chest, something he hadn’t felt for years. 

_Hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Kenma and Bokuto POV! Akaashi will be introduced next chapter, and we should also get a Kuroo POV next chapter, which I'm a little afraid of but also excited because Kuroo is my absolute favorite. Oddly enough, Kenma is the character I have the easiest time writing, which I did not expect. 
> 
> I'm trying to update weekly, and want to hold myself to that, but next week might not be possible because I'll be camping.
> 
> Thank you so much to fanfiction hopper, minie_ai, freolia, and carrochan for the comments on the first chapter. They make my entire life honestly. 
> 
> Please let me know what you guys think of this chapter! I cherish every comment and Kudos you guys give me.


	3. Kenma III & Kuroo I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenma has a revealing conversation with an old friend. Akaashi makes his appearance. Kuroo will do anything to find Kenma again.

The remainder of the ride was not long. Silent, but not uncomfortably so, as Oikawa drifts into sleep against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, the man looking down at his partner, fondness in his eyes tainted with worry. Yaku peers out of the curtained window periodically, and Kenma just sits, still, hands folded in his lap and eyes downcast. He wonders what it would be like to belong to Lord Oikawa. At first impression, the man had seemed silly, outlandish, whirling through the camp with his flamboyant clothes and wide grin, but now in the carriage there was a quiet somberness about him. 

He wonders about Kuroo, it seems as though Oikawa and Iwaizumi were partners, so why would they need a pleasure slave? Oikawa and Iwaizumi seemed ready to go back, perhaps mostly at Yaku’s behest, but surely they wouldn’t waste the money if they didn’t intend to… use him. 

Kenma glances over the couple, eyes falling on Iwaizumi’s hands, wide and strong with long fingers, and he tries not to imagine those hands wrapped around Kuroo’s wrists, or throat. 

He swallows the thought as the carriage begins to slow. Whatever their fate, it could not be worse than the caravan, or the mill, or the Nohebi estate. Kenma shuddered at the memory of Kuroo there. Surely, Yaku would help them if things got that bad. Surely, except… How much had Yaku changed in the years Kenma had known him?

Yaku’s family were staunch abolitionists, and Yaku himself loudly and frequently disparaged the Kozume family to Kenma’s face for participating in the practice. Yaku hated that Kenma’s family owned slaves, and would get inordinately furious with Kenma over the little habits that he and Kuroo developed over the years.

“You can’t ask him to do stuff for you like that Kenma!” Yaku had shouted at him once. He always waited for when Kuroo had left the room to bring things like this up. Kenma was 14 at the time, and it was two weeks after Kuroo’s 15 birthday, and this is one of the first days the three of them could meet up to celebrate and it ended as it always did, with Kenma and Yaku in the music room arguing about compositions while Kuroo smiled indulgently in the corner. 

“I can’t ask him to get me a glass of water?” Kenma deadpanned, confused. He was in the middle of practicing, absorbed in a composition, and Kuroo was standing by the window, just listening, what was the big deal? 

“It’s not asking when it's from you, it's an order,” Yaku stood and paced the room, and his irritation was palpable. “You don’t... you don’t see how he looks at you, sometimes. How he’s careful. I know you think you are friends, and I know he probably thinks it too, but you have to realize, friends can’t have friends whipped when they don’t do what they say-”

“I have never-” Kenma was horrified, “I know that you’ve seen- but it wasn’t me, I would never, you know I would never, Kuroo is my best friend.”

“You’re his master Kenma,” Yaku said ruefully. “You can’t actually be friends, not really.”

“It’s not like that! Not between us,” Kenma said, “We’re equals, we’ve always treated each other like equals, you know that.”

“Really Kenma?” Yaku's eyes narrowed as he looked at Kenma appraisingly. “That isn’t how it works, you can’t ignore the structural power dynamics between you two, you can’t ignore that you can have him beaten, or sold, or killed on a whim. And I know you wouldn’t! That’s not the point, but what about your dad? What’s going to happen to Kuroo when you grow up and move out and your parent’s don’t need a-”

“Stop!”

“And you really think you treat each other like equals? You can be pretty bossy Kenma, I know it’s probably not your fault, Mom says it’s just how you were brought up, but do you really think a “Best Friend” would fall all over themselves to do stuff for you like Kuroo does?” Yaku stopped as both he and Kenma heard the light footfalls of Kenma making his way up the staircase. Yaku made his way back to his position beside Kenma at the piano, and the Kuroo lightly pushed open the door, carrying a tray that held a pitcher of water and a variety of snacks.

“Yaku your mom is the best!” Kuroo called out, “She sent up some food with me, you might need to watch out, I think she might like me more than you!” The sentence was punctuated by Kuroo’s wiggling eyebrows as they creeped up towards his hairline in a suggestive manner. Neither Yaku or Kenma laughed, still stewing in the tension they’d created in Kuroo’s absence. 

Kuroo set down the tray silently on the small end table beside the piano. Neither of the two boys spoke, or moved to help themselves to the food sent up. Kuroo shifted uncomfortably. “Is everything… ok?”

“It’s fine, Kuroo,” Yaku smiled, “we just got a little too heated talking about this composition. Help yourself to whatever my mom sent up, you’re too skinny! That’s why she always goes overboard when you visit.”

But Kuroo didn’t move, instead he flicked his eyes over to meet Kenma, and Kenma could read the question on his face.

Kenma had nodded, gestured to the tray, and watched a grin break over Kuroo’s face as he tucked into the various fruits, cheeses and crackers, but not before he poured and passed to Kenma a tall, clear glass of water. Yaku shot Kenma a knowing look- _see_ it seemed to say- and the afternoon faded back to normalcy. It was not the last conversation of the kind Yaku struck up with him, and Kenma did earnestly try to be better, for Kuroo’s sake.

Now, things were different, and for the first time, as Kenma looks questioningly at Yaku in the carriage, he realizes what the older boy had been trying to tell him all those years ago. There is no amount of security in a relationship that could overcome a power-balance as large as slave and master, even as large as slave and freeman. Yaku did not own him, Oikawa Tooru did, but Kenma knows that the distinction in some households means very little. No matter his past friendship with Yaku, Kenma was a slave now, and he had watched enough rules be beaten into Kuroo and himself to know what that means.

The carriage finally halts, and Kenma can hear movement and chatting outside. Yaku pulls the curtain again and groans as he looks out the small window. “Do they just sit around here all day waiting for us?” Yaku asks, annoyed.

Oikawa, who Iwaizumi has gently shaken awake, lets out a dry laugh, raising both arms above him in a languid stretch, “Are you kidding Yaku? We are probably the most excitement this inn has seen in years.” He stands up, taking Iwaizumi’s offered palm, then looks at Kenma and hesitates. 

“Sorry, Kenma, we’re going to have to put on a bit of a show,” the man says, grabbing at Kenma’s collar.

“Oikawa, no,” Yaku hisses, “is it really necessary?” 

“It really, really is.” Oikawa places his other hand on Kenma’s upper arm and pulls him towards the door, “Sorry about this kid.” Oikawa kicks open the door of his carriage with his pristine white boot, and tosses Kenma bodily through the opening. Kenma pitches forward with a jolt, face-first into the mud as Oikawa’s voice, the same loud, bellowing, look-at-me voice he had used at the market, calls out, “Yaku! Get this filthy thing cleaned up and out of my sight.”

Kenma stays on the ground, eyes lowered, raising them just enough to see Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk past him and into the bustling inn, the onlookers who had gathered to witness their arrival quick at their heels, clamoring to get a glimpse of Lord Oikawa and his illusive partner. The door to the inn opens and Kenma can hear the rumble of conversation, music, and clinking dinnerware, before the door closes with a heavy clunk, bringing with it a peaceful silence. 

“Hey.” Somebody kneels besides Kenma and puts a hand on his shaking shoulder. “Come on, let's get you inside.”

The voice is quiet and kind. Kenma lifts his head first, then pushes himself and rises to his feet. The man beside him is dressed well, and smells faintly of cooking herbs and warm bread. He has dark hair, steel blue eyes, and is looking at Kenma with a friendly, calm smile. 

Yaku is standing a few feet away. “You okay?”

“Yes… sir?” Kenma says shakily, the question in his voice.

“Fuck Kenma, don’t. It’s only --” Yaku cuts himself off with a sigh. “Okay, is there someplace he can get cleaned up? Someplace warm?”

The dark-haired man nods, “Sure, just take him to the stable. Lev and I will get the horses.”

Yaku looks around, then lowers his voice as he leans towards the man and says, “This is a big fucking mess we’ve got, I hope you-”

The man claps Yaku on the shoulder, raising his calm voice to interrupt Yaku loudly, “Go on inside Yaku. It’s a cold night.”

It’s much warmer inside the stable. The room is filled with a soft light, emitting from two hung oil lamps, and horses stomp their feet in greeting as Kenma and Yaku pass through. There is a room in the back of the stable with two cots and a barrel set up as a table in between them, where another lamp hangs from a hook on the wall. 

“Wait here,” Yaku says, and Kenma is left alone in the little room. Kenma can’t remember the last time he hasn’t been within at least five feet of another person and he takes time to breath in, appreciate the silence, but it isn’t long until his thoughts turn to Kuroo, and he feels guilty for indulging in this reprieve when who knows what could be happening to Kuroo. 

Yaku returns with a bucket of steaming water and a bundle of thick looking fabric.

“Here Kenma,” Yaku says, dropping the bucket with a thud and tossing a clean rag over the edge, “It’s hot, so be careful, but clean up. You’re more mud than man right now. Change your clothes afterwards, those aren’t nearly warm enough for this weather.”

Kenma just stares at Yaku. He can’t remember the last time he’s touched warm water, had even a cursory bath that was more than the tepid trickle out of a carafe while he scrubbed at himself with his hands. And new clothes, warm clothes, did Lord Oikawa know these were being given to him?

“He’s right you know.” 

Kenma spins around. The dark haired man is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He is still wearing his calm smile, and he continues, “When Lord Oikawa tossed you out of that carriage, I wasn’t quite sure if you were a person or a large dirt clod.” The words are teasing, but there is no malice behind them, and Kenma is at ease, even though Yaku is sending the man a fierce look on his behalf. 

“Go on,” Yaku says, nodding at Kenma. “Akaashi and I will leave you alone for a minute.”

Yaku makes his way out of the room and moves to shut the door, but before he can, Kenma calls out, “Wait, Yaku!”

Yaku pauses, hand on the knob, “Yeah?”

“Just… Kuroo,” Kenma reminds, and tries to make his words not sound like the plea that they are, “Are they... “ 

“I promise Kenma.” Yaku’s eyes were wide and Kenma could swear they looked glassy, a tell-tale sign of unshed tears, “Oikawa is leaving out, right now. We’ll get him, he’ll be safe. I promise.” The door clicked behind him, and Kenma was alone again. 

The last time Kenma had seen Yaku would have been almost unremarkable. It was a month after Kuroo’s sixteenth birthday, and they were once again at Yaku’s home, this time lounging in their backyard underneath the great big oak tree in the center of the garden. They were laid out on a blanket, eating watermelon and laughing at Yaku’s tales about the orchestra he had joined in the city. He had auditioned and spent a few weeks there in early summer, would be returning in the latter half of the month, and had plenty of scathing impressions of the rich, city noblemen he encountered there that left both Kenma and Kuroo rolling on the ground in laughter.

Kenma rose up from the blanket, leaving to relieve himself, and maybe pick up another pitcher of water, or cordial for the three of them. They needed to leave soon, the sun would be setting, and it was a decent walk back to the Kozume estate, and Kenma’s mother worried when he was out alone at night. He smiled and exchanged pleasantries with Yaku’s mother, grabbing the offered cordial and returning outside to the garden, where he caught sight of Yaku, rolled over on top of Kuroo, hands pressed into the blanket, supporting his weight on either side of his friend’s face, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on Kuroo’s lips. 

It was over in a second. Kuroo did not respond, and Yaku rolled off, and Kenma could hear him from the back door as he apologized, but still Kuroo said nothing. Kenma waited for silence, before returning to the blanket carefully passing the pitcher of cordial to Yaku as he settled down in between the two. The evening ended quickly after that, with Kuroo uncharacteristically quiet and Yaku too flustered to carry a conversation, an embarrassed flush dusted across his cheeks. 

Kenma and Kuroo were mostly silent on the walk home as well. Kuroo didn’t start up a conversation and Kenma was distracted by the new, strange feeling in his chest he couldn’t quite describe. 

“Kenma,” Kuroo finally said as they turned the last corner, the Kozume estate in their sight, “do you like anyone? You know, I mean, like-like anyone?”

“No,” Kenma responded, deadpan, and the conversation stopped there. But later that night Kenma caught himself staring at the line of Kuroo’s neck, the pink of his lips, and whenever he did, the strange feeling in his chest got tighter. Kenma declined every opportunity for he and Kuroo to visit Yaku over the next three weeks, and then, the next month, while Yaku was away in the city, the raid happened, Kenma’s parents were killed, their orchard burned, and Kenma and Kuroo were taken away, never again to see the Kozume estate or the dusty road that led to Yaku’s home ever again.

Now, it had been so long since Kenma had bathed, he isn’t quite sure he remembers how. They hadn’t provided him with soap, but at least the water was warm, so Kenma does his best, stripping and using his tattered clothes to scrape off the worst of the mud before scrubbing at himself with the offered rag. The water is an opaque brown at the end, but Kenma feels cleaner than he had in months, and happily puts on the new clothes Yaku had provided him, thick, woolen pants and a sleeved button up shirt he has to roll at the wrists to keep them from covering his hands. 

He dumped the dirty water out the back door, and stood in the middle of the room, debating with himself the merits vs possible consequences of laying across one of the cots in the room. He is so tired, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a bed. As he is resigning himself to dive into the cot, come what may, the door to the room opens and Yaku and Akaashi enter the room joined by an improbably tall young man with silvery blonde hair. 

Akaashi takes one look at Kenma and says curtly, “Sit, before you fall down.” Kenma does as he is told and allows himself to collapse into the bed on the far wall. Yaku is frowning, not looking at any of them, eyes darting across the room, obviously lost in thought.

“Both passes?” he says, “You’re sure?”

The tall one answers, “Yes.”

“Shit. Why are all these soldiers out anyway?”

“Who knows,” Akaashi says, “They’ve been crawling along the countryside like ants for weeks.” 

“I don’t suppose Oikawa thought of that before he went and bought an entire caravan” the tall one says, “does he think they won’t notice?”

Yaku snorts. “I don’t pretend to have a clue what goes on in that pretty head of his. The man is certifiably insane, and leaves us to keep the wheels rolling. But there’s no time, one of you will have to warn them. If you leave tonight there will be plenty of time to get to the border and warn Tsukkishima. We just have to hope no one is dumb enough to walk into a fucking ambush.”

“I’ll do it,” says Akaashi, “I’m faster than Lev anyway.”

“Are not!” Lev counters, voice raising so loudly and so quickly it causes Kenma to flinch, which does not go unnoticed. “Sorry,” Lev says, quieter, “Yaku are you going to introduce us to your friend here?”

“Right,” Yaku says, “This is Kenma, we grew up together. Kenma this is Akaashi and Lev.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Lev, before turning back to Yaku, “Now what exactly are we supposed to do with him?”

“I. I don’t know.” Yaku says scowling, “This wasn’t a part of the plan, but I wasn’t going to leave him there.” Yaku sounds angry, and it’s almost comforting, to see that same righteous anger he was so familiar with, unchanged after all these years, “He can’t stay here though, it isn’t safe. God knows what’s going to be brought down on this inn come tomorrow, and we can’t keep playing this game, I’m not going to let someone take him again.”

“Well,” says Akaashi, “he can come with me.”

“I think someone will notice if Oikawa’s new purchase goes missing,” Yaku says driely.

“He’ll make something up,” says Akaashi, “It’s still safer than letting Kenma stay here. Oikawa will have his hands full tomorrow morning anyway.”

Yaku starts nodding slowly. “I guess,” he turns to address Kenma, “Look I know this isn’t ideal but I think Akaashi is right. You should go with him tonight. Things might get --”

“But-” Kenma interjects, “Kuroo, I’m not leaving Kuroo, Yaku, please don’t ask me too.”

“I need you to trust me Kenma,” Yaku says, “I won’t let anything happen to Kuroo, he will meet you at the safe house, he-”

“I don’t even know what’s going on!” Kenma snaps, “Tooru Oikawa buys me, I see you for the first time in years, Kuroo isn’t here, and now I’m being asked to ride off into the middle of the night, away from the man who now owns me? What the fuck Yaku?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Akaashi asks, eyes wide in surprise. 

“We haven’t exactly had an abundance of time, or privacy,” Yaku snaps.

“Tell me what?” Kenma is frustrated, he is tired, he is confused, and he just wants to know why Yaku is here and when he’ll see Kuroo again.

“We’re freeing you Kenma,” Yaku says, “You, and Kuroo, and every last slave in the caravan that Oikawa bought today, But we can’t exactly set one-hundred and fifty slaves off onto the countryside without some people noticing, so you need to trust me, trust that I’ll take care of Kuroo, and go with Akaashi.”

Kenma is speechless. He is hyper aware of the three sets of eyes staring at him as he gapes, shocked at Yaku. 

“We’ve done this before, Kenma,” says Akaashi, “And we are very, very good at it. You just need to trust us. Can you ride?”

Kenma nods. It was never his favorite, but his father had him spend half his childhood on horseback. “Good,” says Akaashi. “I’ll get our horses ready. Yaku, give him your boots.” 

Akaashi leaves the room, and Lev follows, leaving just Yaku and Kenma in the room. Yaku sighs, sinking into the cot across from Kenma and tugging at his boots, tossing them across the floor to Kenma who still just sits, hands twisting in his lap, trying to process everything they’ve told him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you as soon as I saw you Kenma,” Yaku says carefully, “I didn’t- I didn’t think of how scared or confused you might be.”

Kenma says nothing.

“I promise this is real. We really are freeing you, and Kuroo and everyone else.”

Kenma says nothing.

“I know it’s hard for you to leave him behind, but you have to trust me. I- I won’t let anything happen to Kuroo, I can’t.”

Kenma thinks of the soft kiss he saw Yaku and Kuroo share underneath the old oak tree in the garden, and thinks maybe Kuroo would have been better off if it was Yaku by his side all these years. When Yaku said nothing would happen to Kuroo, Kenma believed it, he suddenly had faith in the safety of his best friend that he hadn’t had in years. There was a fire in Yaku’s eyes when he said Kuroo’s name, a courage behind his words that Kenma had never managed to muster. Maybe if it had been Yaku next to Kuroo instead of Kenma, Kuroo wouldn’t have had to endure so many hurts. But Kenma was selfish, and Kenma failed, but now maybe he could do the right thing. Step down, and let Yaku take Kuroo into his care. Maybe Kenma had failed enough.

Kenma nods, reaching down and tugging on Yaku’s tossed boots, still warm from his body heat. They were a decent fit, and he tugged himself up, ready to join Akaashi in the main stable. 

“Kenma,” Yaku calls out one more time, as Kenma was leaving the small makeshift bedroom, “I- I really missed you and I’m glad you are okay.”

Kenma’s chest fills with warmth, and despite the circumstance, despite the years, despite the jealousy he feels, a sour, hard pit at the bottom of his stomach, he turns back to Yaku, and says with an honestly and earnestness he normally finds beyond him, “I missed you too. Thank you, Yaku.”

“I’ll see you at the safehouse,” Yaku says, and his voice trembles, “With Kuroo. I promise.”

Kenma nods, and his fingers twitch as his sides and before he realizes, Yaku is up and pulling Kenma into a long hug. Kenma startles at first, then relaxes into Yaku’s warm hold, and he doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Seconds, minutes, hours, he doesn’t know, but for a moment, Kenma feels the shadow of being utterly safe. The only thing that is missing is Kuroo.

They break apart, both wiping discreetly at their eyes. Kenma walks away, finding Akaashi in the stable proper, next to a beautiful white mare, and a handsome grey gelding. Akaashi helps him up into the saddle of the grey horse, then mounts his own, leading Kenma in a quiet trot out of the stable, behind the inn, and onto a small dirt path that cuts through the trees. 

“It’s all going to be okay, Kenma,” Akaashi says in his quiet, calm voice.

And Kenma, against all better judgement, really and truly believes him.

The first thought Kuroo has when he wakes is that he can’t see Kenma. His head is pounding, his throat and mouth are burning, and the world around him seems to be spinning, but he can’t see or feel Kenma at all, which seems all the more pressing. 

Somehow, it is dark out when only a blink ago Kuroo is pretty sure it was a sunny afternoon. There are more torches lit than there typically are around the caravan at night, which makes his double vision all the more confusing as the flames flicker, curl and shift around the corners of his eyes, and Kuroo remembers that they were meant to have stopped at a market. He closes his eyes, wills the world to stop spinning, and takes a deep breath which causes a harsh, acrid burn to rip through his throat. He coughs, spits, and grabs on to the iron bars of his cage to hold him steady as he tries to find his center of balance.

He opens his eyes, and the world isn’t spinning so much but he still can’t see Kenma. What he can see is a large burly guard throwing open the door of his cage, which swings around to clang into itself with a jolting bang, and Kuroo feels the vibration in the iron under his hand as he pitches forward. 

Thick, strong hands grasp at his shoulders, and for a moment he panics, thrashing in the guards hold, mind still dizzy as he tries to piece together his surroundings. Kuroo is dragged out of his cage, and then there is a second pair of hands on him, holding him steady, and between him and the other guard Kuroo is unable to continue his flailing. 

Nausea flairs up in his stomach as he is dragged forward, feet hanging lifelessly against the ground. He thinks the guards are talking to him, but he can’t quite focus on their words through the barrage on his senses. His heart feels like it is beating out of his chest, and though the world is slowly righting itself in his vision, he still stumbles despite being supported on either side. 

The guards deposit him on an old wooden stool, and one of them grabs fiercely at his chin, brush in hand, dipped into the old cracked pallet of grease paints the caravan master kept on hand. Kuroo coughs, spitting again, and the man taps violently against his cheek in warning. They paint him in the same cheap, heavy handed way they employed the last time. Kuroo can feel the stickiness of the paint on his cheeks and eyes, and before he can stop himself, reaches up to scratch at the offending makeup, before having his hand slapped down.

“None of that kitten,” a guard whistles, and Kuroo takes another breath. The world is ceasing it's relentless spinning, and perhaps if he can sit for a minute, unburdened, things would start to come together. He looks around surreptitiously, but still doesn’t see Kenma where he would usually be, hiding just out of the guards’ range. One of them is talking again, and Kuroo is decided whether or not it would be beneficial to divert his still occupied mental processing to listening when two words break through, “Kozume” and “Sold”.

Kuroo looks at the ground, expecting to see his heart laying amongst the dirt, as it for all the world feels as though it has dropped out of his chest. It is a sobering thought, and Kuroo’s surroundings finally click into place, the headache persisting, but the double vision and dizziness clearing as he looks at the grinning, mean-spirited guards and forces himself to follow their jeering taunts.

“Someone’s requested you specifically, kitten. Though I must say, I hope you fuck this one up too. Kozume isn’t here anymore, and maybe I’ll actually enjoy fucking you without his beady little eyes watching me the entire time.”

Kozume isn’t here anymore.

_Kenma isn’t here anymore._

Kuroo feels the panic crashing in on him. He is grabbed once again, hauled bodily upright and as he is dragged past the throng of silent slaves, he catches Bokuto’s eye, and the man gives him a smile and a nod, which makes no sense, how could anyone be smiling when Kenma was gone?

He is brought into a small, well-lit circle in the center of camp, and deposited shakily on his feet in front of the caravan master and a tall, well-dressed gentleman in white riding boots. 

The gentleman lets out a long appreciative whistle as he lets his eyes roam over Kuroo, “So you were holding out on me!” He offers the caravan master an exaggerated wink, “Wanted to keep him for yourself I see, that’s not very good business, sir.”

The caravan master’s face falls, “Not at all! Not at all, I just didn’t know you would be interested sir, especially not so accompanied by your,” the caravan master hesitates, wrinkling his nose in a nasty little way, “partner.”

If the gentleman notices the slight, he pretends not to. “Ah, I see. Well I’m glad my new little pet told me about the toys you stock. Iwaizumi and I are almost always looking, we break them so easily.” The gentleman pouts, circling decisively around Kuroo, “And this one is exquisite! The legs! The hair! And what a disgustingly cute face!”

He circles back around to Kuroo’s front, letting one long, delicate finger trail over Kuroo’s cheekbone. “C’mon cutie, smile for me.” Kuroo’s eyes narrow.

The gentleman pulls his hand away. “Fiesty!” he sing-songs, “I like it.”

He waves his hand dismissively at the caravan master, “I’ll take him as well. Put him in my carriage. I’ll send wagons tomorrow for the rest of the lot, along with the rest of your payment.” He strides away, and the caravan master follows at his heel, like a dog following a scent.

The guard shoves Kuroo forward, “You heard him kitten, your carriage awaits.”

It takes Kuroo a few seconds. He’s been sold. But Kenma is gone. He has no idea where he went and no one to ask, how is he supposed to find him. He looks around, desperately, the caravan master is occupied, but there are plenty of guards standing at attention, as well as what looked like several of the gentleman’s own men, more than enough to stop him if he tried anything.

Kuroo’s head turns from left to right, looking desperately for an opening. Maybe if he were quick enough, if he could make it out of the light- he tries to turn again, locks eyes once more with Bokuto, still stuck in the middle of the crowd, and as he pulls in that direction, the guard behind him twists meanly at his arm. “What’s the matter, kitten? Afraid of your wedding night?”

Kuroo lashes out without thinking, letting out a wordless growl, and kicking at the man’s legs even though he knows it is futile. The man backhands him, almost casually, and Kuroo falls to his knees automatically curling himself into the guards boots. Maybe this was best. Kenma was valuable, there was no point in severely mistreating a slave as capable and talented as Kenma. Kenma always shined wherever they were, not like Kuroo who only seemed to attract the negative, violent kinds of attention. He was probably bought but some rich lordling to be a glorified bard, would be left alone to compose then trotted out for every ball and party, where noble men and women would coo over his talent. Maybe that's why Kenma wanted to separate in the first place. Watching over Kuroo had to be tiring, but Kuroo couldn't give up yet. If there was a chance to find Kenma, he would take it, and he would find a way to be better, to cause less trouble for his friend, so he curled up and waited for the inevitable violence from the guard he'd kicked. 

But instead of kicks raining into his back, Kuroo feels strong arms helping him to his feet, and he looks down to see himself being lifted by strong arms covered elbow to wrist in gladiator tattoos. Yoshiki. 

“I’ve got this one,” Yoshiki says to the other guard. “Go handle the others. The other guard grunts in acknowledgment and when he is several steps away, out of hearing range, Yoshiki leans down and whispers into Kenma’s ear, “He bought Kenma this afternoon, and already brought him back to the inn. Don’t fuck this up for yourself.”

Kuroo gasps in relief, and a question is half-forming on his tongue, “What-” but it comes out as a harsh croak. Yoshiki frowns down at him, sighing resignedly and reaching for his hip. Kuroo flinches, but Yoshiki is only grasping at this water canteen, which he hands to Kuroo silently. 

Kuroo only stares.

“You drink it moron.” Yoshiki says with a roll of his eyes. 

Kuroo pulls the stopper at the canteen and brings it to his mouth. The water hurts as he swallows, but he can feel his throat clearing, and when he finishes and turns to give his thanks to Yoshiki, the words come out much clearer.

“Thank you,” Kuroo says, “for everything.”

They’ve reached the gentleman’s carriage, a gaudy white thing, with teal painted iron work and a massive floral sigil on the door. Yoshiki pushes him forward, opening the door, shoving Kuroo inside, then shutting it firmly behind him.

The inside of the carriage is just as lavish at the outside, upholstered in velvet, walls painted, with silver filigree decorating every edge. It is also empty. When the lord comes back, it will be just him and Kuroo. 

Kuroo stands between the seats, unwilling to touch the ugly red velvet. He thinks about trying the door, about making an attempt at running. It would probably work, everyone was currently distracted, and the lord seemed to be thick as a brick. 

But the lord bought Kenma. Kenma wasn’t in the camp, he was alone, waiting at some inn, and Kenma couldn’t run with him. 

Kuroo realizes his hands are shaking and glares at them until they stop. 

He has to- he doesn’t know what he has to do, only that he has to find Kenma and keep them safe somehow. He has to do something. And the lord owns him. And the lord owns Kenma. 

And when he thinks about it like that, the decision is barely a decision at all. 

There is a mirror glued to the wall of the carriage next to a window, all shiny and silver and only a little distorted, but clear enough for Kuroo to see his face, and the thick grease paint covering it. He rubs at the thick black kohl around his eyes until the smudging looks sultry and intentional, rips a thin strip off the bottom of his pants to wipe off the majority of the cakey, smeared rouge, but it has stained his skin enough to give him a subtle flush. With the majority of the paint gone, he doesn’t look quite as cheap. Practically sophisticated, he thinks, as he gives himself a twisted smile. 

He gives himself one last glance in the warped silver mirror, before sitting down carefully on one of the ugly velvet seats. 

When the carriage door finally opens, Kuroo is resolved. He can do this. He will. For Kenma. 

He counts to three before opening his eyes, and tilts his head, allowing himself to be looked at. He can feel the lord's eyes on him, and when he glances up, delicately, through his lashes, the way men like, he meets the lords gaze and shifts in a way that is clearly an invitation.

“My lord,” he murmurs. It didn’t sound as eager as he wanted, but its a start.

The lord stares at him for a long moment, and says, “Don’t move,” slamming the carriage door shut behind him, and pulling at the curtain over the open window to yell, “Drive, Hanamaki!” 

He drops down on the seat opposite Kuroo with a sigh as the carriage starts to rumble, tugging at the buttons on his blue waistcoat. “It’s Kuroo, right?”

“Yes, my lord.” Kuroo says, immediately flinching because he knows that is not the right answer. A memory raises, unbidden. _Your name is whatever I see fit to call you. You don’t have a name. You don’t have an identity. You are just mine, nothing else._

The lord doesn’t seem perturbed by his answer though. “Oikawa Tooru, Lord of Aoba Johsai,” he says back, grinning. “You may have heard of me.”

Kuroo hasn’t. He licks his lips, running his hand carefully down his own neck and chest, before settling it delicately on his thigh. Oikawa just blinks, staring reactionless, and says “Are you cold? I might have an extra shirt.”

Thick as a brick. Kuroo ignores the question and slips down his seat to the floor, kneeling before Lord Oikawa, eyes cast demurely downward. “Thank you,” he says. Masters always expect you to thank them, he learned that lesson and many others at Nohebi. 

“Thank you,” Oikawa repeats, voice flat and eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“The caravan master,” Kuroo says, “He is not known for an overabundance of kindness.” He edges forward until he is kneeling besides Oikawa’s tall white boots, brushing up against his knees. Kuroo wills his hands not to shake as he reaches to touch the man’s thigh, a light dance of his fingers. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Oikawa and and watches as the Lord swallows, leaning away from his touch, “He-”

So quickly, Kuroo’s eyes don’t catch the movement, Oikawa grabs Kuroo’s wrist and yanks it away from his leg, hard. “Where’s the knife?”

Kuroo stares. “Where- what?” he stutters, forgetting his act.

“Oh, come on.” Oikawa says, rolling his eyes. “You’re pretty good. But the last time a courtesan got this close to me voluntarily it was because she wanted to run me through with a knife, and if its all the same to you, I don’t want a repeat performance. The scarred, ruggedly handsome angle is more Iwaizumi’s thing, I’m too pretty.”

“I- I don’t-” Oikawa’s grip on Kuroo’s hand is firm, but not painful, and when Kuroo pulls, Oikawa lets go, letting Kuroo fall back against the velvet seats behind them. “I wouldn’t,” he begins, but its hard to say what he knows is a lie. He’s tried dozens of times to steal a knife for that exact purpose.

“Sure,” Oikawa says easily. “I can’t say I blame you. But I really don’t see where you could be hiding a knife, so what’s your angle? What do you want?”

“To please you my Lord.” The lie comes easily but it taste like ash, but Kuroo just needs to think of _Kenma, Kenma, Kenma._

“Yeah, that’s convincing,” Oikawa snorts. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

Kuroo wills his expression not to change, but does not succeed as he feels his eyes narrow. 

Oikawa laughs, loud and bellowing. “They had no idea what they had in you, huh?”

Kuroo looks downward again, making eye contact with Oikawa’s shiny white boots. “My lord-”

“Urgh, stop,” Oikawa says, “I like you better when you're not pretending. Did you really bite the last guy who tried to buy you?” Without waiting for Kuroo’s answer, he reaches out and touches his shoulder softly. “Go sit on the seat. We have a long ride and you don’t need to be uncomfortable.”

Kuroo doesn’t move from his position kneeling on the floor. 

“Go,” Oikawa says insistently. “Oh, and if we get attacked run for the woods. You look fast, you might make it. 

_Attacked?_

Kuroo pulls himself up onto the velvet seat behind him, settling as far away from Oikawa as he can get in the small interior of the carriage, pressing into the opposite corner. The carriage is gently rumbling with movement as they ride over the rough dirt road, and he sees Oikawa finally relax into the velvet upholstery. “You should probably go ahead and ask me,” he says after a moment.

“I didn’t say anything,” Kuroo bites out, belatedly adding, “My lord.”

Oikawa looks up and rolls his eyes. “You’re wondering why we’d get attacked, aren’t you?”

Kuroo nods, there is no point in denying it. 

“Well, it's a little soon to be spilling my secrets to a man I just met,” says Oikawa. “Stick with me long enough and you’ll find out. 

Kuroo’s only sticking with Oikawa until he can find Kenma and they can safely come up with a way for both of them to escape, but he nods again anyway. He looks over the man in front of him, Oikawa’s eyes are tinged with exhaustion as he melts into the velvet upholstery behind him and Kuroo tries to connect the man in front of him to the Lord who spat “they break so fast” at the caravan master while eyeing Kuroo up like property. _You are property._

Oikawa looks half-asleep now, neck tilted back and eyes half shut. They’ve been on the road for nearly an hour, and Kuroo himself is beginning to relax when the carriage suddenly jolts to a stop. Oikawa jerks awake, swearing loudly and shouts “Hanamaki! What the fuck!”

Seconds later the door is flung open and Oikawa's driver appears. “Oikawa,” he says urgently, “It’s Kyotani.”

Oikawa moves fast, shoving his way out of the carriage. Kuroo stands and peers out of the open door. There’s a man waiting in the road, breathing hard as though he’s just run a race. His left hand is clenched around his right upper arm and blood is seeping between his fingers and staining his shirt. 

“What-” Oikawa begins, voice a whispered shriek.

“Soldiers,” Kyotani growls. “Two squadrons. Oikawa the inn is surrounded, everyone is under suspicion, they aren’t letting anyone leave. I got out, they shot my horse.”

“Let me see your arm!” Hanamaki says fervently, reaching out towards the man.

Kyotani pulls away. “It's fine, they just grazed me. I’m glad I caught you, I have to warn- will you give me a horse?”

“You’re injured! You aren’t riding anywhere,” snarls Oikawa, “I don’t understand, why are there soldiers there _now_? What do they know.”

“I’ve got to ride!” Kyotani growls back, “You don’t know, it’s Akaashi. They are looking for him, they caught some runaways at the border, or there’s a leak, we aren’t sure, but they have Akaashi’s name, and they suspect-” he makes a wild gesture with his uninjured arm, “Well, they suspect everyone, but they can’t prove anything, and it’s not like they can walk in and arrest you. But they have a warrant for Akaashi, and when Iwaizumi said he wasn’t there, they settled in to wait for him.”

“Fuck,” says Oikawa. There is a moment of silence, and Oikawa snaps, kicking violently at a small rock in the middle of the path. “Fuck!”

“You still can’t ride,” says Hanamaki. “Where is he anyway? When we left he was still at the inn with-”

“Lev got intel. The passages in the mountain are blocked and we needed to warn Tsukkishima before someone headed straight into an ambush. They left about an hour or so before the soldiers arrived.”

“Lucky,” whispered Hanamaki.

“Not lucky,” growled Kyotani. “He’s gonna ride straight into them, him and that little blond friend of Yaku’s.”

_Yaku? Blond?_

“Blond..” says Kuroo, “Kenma?” 

Three pairs of eyes turn to look at Kuroo. He shrinks. 

“Who the _fuck_ is that?” Kyotani says. He is looking at Kuroo menacingly, like he hadn’t noticed Kuroo hovering in the carriage doorway this whole time. 

“We rescued him from the same place that had Kenma,” Oikawa shrugs, “Yaku asked us to go back for him, he wasn’t a part of our initial deal, the caravan master didn’t disclose him in the original sale.”

Yaku again. Could it really be?

Kyotani’s eyes look over Kuroo appraisingly, lingering on his bare chest, flushed cheeks, and lined eyes. He snorts, turning away.

“Whatever,” says Kyotani, “Just give me the damn horse, I’ve ridden with worse. Hanamaki can’t go, it’ll look suspicious if you go back without your driver.”

Oikawa’s eyes have not left Kuroo, still standing in the carriage doorway. His eyes narrow speculatively. “Kuroo,” he says, “can you ride?”

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki says sharply, “he’ll run. We can’t risk it.”

Oikawa waves his hand dismissively, “He won’t run, his friend is in danger.”

“We’re wasting time,” Kyotani adds, anger palpable, “Just let me-” He turns to stride towards the horses pulling the carriage, but bumps his arm against Hanamaki and hisses with pain.

Oikawa is still looking at Kuroo, “Can you ride?”

Kuroo hesitates. He hasn’t ridden in years, and even then it was infrequently at best, but he always felt comfortable on horseback. And if what they were saying was true then Kenma-

“You have no reason to trust me,” Oikawa says. Hanamaki snorts quietly. “You have no reason to believe I am any different from any of the others who have bought, and used, and sold you. And we normally have a better way of doing things, but I don’t really have time to explain because we need you to carry a message. And I think you will, because right now your friend Kenma is travelling with my man Akaashi. And if the soldiers catch them, they will think Kenma is a runaway. I don’t think I have to tell you what happens to runaways.”

Kuroo grips the edge of the carriage doorway and tries not to let Oikawa see how his knees are shaking. “I don’t-” his voice cracks, “I don’t understand.” No one buys a bed slave and then sends him off on horseback to deliver a secret message. 

“I’m going to set you free,” Oikawa says. “All of you. You, Kenma, every slave in that caravan that I bought from that asshole. But I can’t do it until we are out of this province, or people will start asking questions.”

“They already are asking questions,” Kyotani growls.

“We have a plan, we have groups split off and paths marked, and we know how to get everyone to somewhere safe.” Oikawa continues, “But if the soldiers have a warrant for Akaashi, they know more than I thought and we have to warn the others.”

Kuroo stops, and thinks of Bokuto, of his easy conversation and calm smile. “And the rest-” he says, “You’re buying the rest.”

“Yes?” Oikawa says, ”After you warn Akaashi he’ll take you to the rendezvous. They’ll all be there.”

“And Kenma, he’s-” Kuroo starts.

“He’s with Akaashi, which means he is safe right now, but he won’t be if we don’t get them this message.” Oikawa says.

Kuroo takes a deep breath, clenching his fist where they are hidden behind the carriage walls. Kenma needed him. This time he could be the one to help his friend. “I can ride,” he says.

Oikawa’s face breaks out into a wide grin. “Excellent, here’s what you need to- actually I have no idea where Akaashi is. Kyotani, tell him where to go.”

Kyotani shakes his head with a frown, but gives Kuroo a complex set of directions through hills and along rivers, into hidden valleys. Then, he adds exactly what message Kuroo is to convey; the number of soldiers, where they are searching, and what they might be planning. Kuroo listens carefully, committing everything to memory. 

“It’s a safe place to meet. They’ll probably be there first, Akaashi normally stops there to camp. He’ll see you and know we sent you.”

“Can you remember that?” Oikawa asks suddenly, “I know it’s a lot.”

Kuroo stares at him, “I’m not an idiot.”

Oikawa is very still for a second, and Kuroo feels panic licking up his spine, but Oikawa just laughs, startling Kuroo into breathing again. “Fair enough,” he says, “Ready?”

While they were talking Hanamaki has led one of the horses over and is waiting patiently to the side. He moves to pass over the reins, but hesitates pulling back while he eyes Kuroo appraisingly. 

“We just told you a lot of dangerous information,” Hanamaki starts.

“Don’t-” Oikawa starts to growl.

But Hanamaki continues, “I don’t think you are dumb enough to try and take that information anywhere else, but just in case you are, remember something. No matter what you know, no matter where you go, most people won’t see anything but a pretty courtesan slave to fuck or sell.”

“Hanamaki!” Oikawa snaps again.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Hanamaki says, “And we won’t hurt your friend. We’ll set you both free. Unless you fuck us over. This is too important to risk that.” He holds out the reins to Kuroo. “Here. Let me give you a leg up.”

Kuroo steps forward, but Oikawa sticks out a hand to stop him, “Aren’t you forgetting something.”

Kuroo freezes. Of course it was too good to be true. Chains. Shackles. A collar. Something to bind him, they can’t just let him ride off into the woods this easily.

But Oikawa is leaning into the carriage and muttering to himself, and when he turns around, he’s shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s cold out at night,” he says as he unbuttons his shirt and strips it off. “It’s not much but it will help. Here.” He holds the shirt out to Kuroo.

Kuroo stares at it. 

“Take it,” Oikawa says, shaking it towards Kuroo, “I’m not gonna send you half-naked into the mountains.”

Kuroo looks at Oikawa, then reaches for the shirt, slipping it on and buttoning it up quickly. It is still warm from Oikawa’s body heat, and soft, a fine delicate silk that is without a doubt the nicest fabric Kuroo has ever worn. 

Oikawa puts on his jacket, but doesn’t bother with the buttons as he aims a rakish grin at Kuroo. “Looks better on me, but not bad.”

“Ready?” Hanamaki asks.

Kuroo doesn’t need help mounting the horse, but steps into Hanamaki’s hand anyway, swinging his leg over the horse’s back. The horse is a big, black gelding, strong and powerful underneath him, but Kuroo keeps his seat. He feels like he should say something, but before he can open his mouth, Oikawa calls out. “Tell Akaashi to keep out of trouble. I’ll tell Yaku you say hello.” Kuroo nods.

Kyotani slaps the horse’s hindquarters, and the beast takes off, and Kuroo is about 100 yards down the road when he realizes he perhaps should have said thank you.

It’s too late to turn now, and he glances back and sees Oikawa climbing back into his gaudy carriage, Hanamaki resuming his station on the outside with Kyotani beside him.

It's too late to say thank you now, but he’ll have another chance. So Kuroo rides hard and fast, on his way towards Kenma, and though he is yet to believe it, maybe, possibly, towards freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So this ended up being the longest chapter yet. No Bokuto at all, sorry guys! There wasn't room, but we catch up with him next chapter. In other news, I dumped a LOT of exposition in here, so we kind of know a bit of what's going on now, so that's nice.
> 
> Akaashi finally shows up! Also I think I gave Yaku an old crush on Kuroo because I just project my own crush on Kuroo onto everybody. My brain just goes "well they would have a crush on Kuroo because who wouldn't have a crush on Kuroo."
> 
> I was worried about the Kuroo POV and I'm still not 100% happy with it, mostly because there isn't a lot of introspection where I got to play in Kuroo's head, because so much stuff had to happen for us to move on in the story, so there will probably be another Kuroo POV next chapter so I can play in the space again. I also just really like writing Oikawa as a feudal Lord so I feel like he kind of steals the chapter. He just belongs in this setting. 
> 
> As always, your comments give me all of the dopamine I need to write and get through my week, so don't be shy, tell me what you think!


	4. Kuroo II Bokuto III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo has a mission and Bokuto has nothing to lose anymore.

Kuroo rides about two miles down the road before he comes to the first landmark Kyotani named. _You’re looking for an old farm,_ Kyotani’s instructions were clear, despite his obvious pain and even more obvious distrust of Kuroo. _Ride north. To the east there will be a break in the stone wall. If you hit the bridge you’ve gone too far._

Kuroo does hit the bridge, but it's easy enough to find the break once he backtracks. His head is still quietly aching, and the tickle in his throat has returned, and even though he hasn’t been riding long, the jostling motions are compounding the aches of his treatment from the guards the day before. He dismounts from his horse at one point to stretch out the muscles of his lower back, and winces at the pain he feels. Despite the ache, he can’t afford to waste time, not with Kenma waiting. He crosses the break in the wall and finds the old barn with peeling yellow paint Kyotani described. _Ride through the old orchard, past the barn and the outbuildings, when you hit the other side of the property line, there’s another stone wall, another break, but it’s a little harder to find._

The property had been abandoned for years by the look of it. Cascading vines cover the peeling yellow barn, poking through the cracks in the slatted wood. The trees in the orchard are barren, but there is still the sick sweet smell of rotting apples freshly thawed. Kuroo knows the smell, and for a moment when he closes his eyes and breathes, he could be back on the Kozume estate, 15, collecting the late season apples that had fallen before they could be harvested. He would glance up at the main house every so often to find the open window to Kenma’s study and stare longingly, hoping to catch a glance of the boy through the billowing sheer shades. 

But the Kozume estate was gone, the orchard that Kuroo had so carefully tended burned, and Kenma didn’t have a study to write music in anymore.

It takes Kuroo a few minutes to find the break in the opposite wall. It is well-hidden by fallen branches and crumbled stones, and he has to dismount from the horse to clear some of it away so they can pass through. It is surprisingly difficult to move the chunks of crumbled stone. Kuroo is no longer used to physical labor-- _worth more on your knees, kitten_ \-- and he curses under his breath with the effort, as his lungs burn with the strain of his heavy breathing. 

The horse just stares forward, but does not resist when Kuroo leads it over the remaining debris. Once on the other side of the wall, Kuroo hesitates, glancing back at the now obvious gap in the stone wall, and before mounting his horse once more takes a moment to cover the gap with branches again. Just in case. 

_There isn’t a trail through the woods,_ Kyotani said, _Go east until you reach the river, then follow the river north to the mountains._  
“East,” Kuroo mumbles to himself, shivering and wrapping his borrowed shirt tighter against himself, “then North.”

It is dark in the woods, and quiet, but not completely silent. There is a dull hum from distant insects, the catches of a bird song now and again. Something stirs in his mind, suggesting this quiet-not-silence is a good thing. Kuroo had not spent much time in the woods in his life, save for the few times Kenma’s father had dragged Kenma, and consequently Kuroo, hunting. Kenma was never any good at it, and Kuroo was not allowed to hold a weapon, much less shoot one, and the constant pulling tension between Kenma and his father made for trips that were altogether unpleasant. Despite this, they were dragged on more than a dozen, days filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the shattering blasts in their ears, nights stayed up whispering by the fire, and pretending not to care about Kenma’s father’s constant lectures about how Kenma would do better in life if he could find better friends and stop spending so much time with an ignorant slave. 

It was a common enough theme of conversation in the Kozume household, and seemingly the one thing Kenma would not budge on. _He’s not ignorant_ Kuroo had overheard Kenma saying to his father once, in the quiet, toneless way Kenma spoke to his parents, _I taught him how to read. He’s incredibly smart._ Kenma’s father’s face had flushed red, but his glance was not angry, but calculating. _Good,_ the man had said, _He’ll be worth more when we sell him. Maybe in a year or two._ Kenma had frozen, and in doing so, made eye contact with Kuroo who was peering through the door. Kenma’s father turned to leave the room, and Kuroo quickly moved to walk downstairs, exit the house, and find work in the gardens. 

That’s where Kenma found him hours later, up to his elbows in mud, dirt smudged across his nose, and absolutely dripping with sweat in the afternoon heat. Kenma disregarded this, wrapping his arms around Kuroo from behind, in one of the rare moments of physical intimacy the two had been brave enough to share on the Kozume property. _I won’t let him,_ Kenma had said, _I promise, I- I’ll figure something out. He can’t just sell you- You’re not-_

But Kuroo was, and Kenma’s father could. Kuroo knew there was nothing Kenma would be able to do about it, but he couldn’t blame Kenma for being his father’s son, anymore than he could blame his mother for his own status in the world. So Kuroo smiled at Kenma, said _I’m not worried_ even though that wasn’t true, and started the process of emotionally preparing himself for existing without Kenma. He never succeeded at this, but the day would never come where Kenma’s father would sell him either, because six months later he and Kenma stepped over the man’s dead body as they were chained together by the snatchers that raided their estate. 

The horse startles beneath him, and Kuroo jerks forward, catching the disappearing tail of a slithering snake as it disappears into the roots of a tree. Kuroo shakes himself, he can’t believe he’s been daydreaming like a fucking idiot while he’s on a mission and god knows what could be on his trail from the information he’d gotten from Kyotani and Oikawa. Soldiers, guards, who knows what he could run into, but instead of focusing on his surroundings, he’s been reminiscing about a past that doesn’t even feel real anymore. He has a long way to go before he finds Kenma and this Akaashi fellow. 

He rides for an hour more before he reaches the river. He stops for a moment to let the horse drink, and when he dismounts he finds his own legs are jelly. The pain radiating from his backside had become all the more apparent now that he has stopped to assess the situation, and his lungs and throat are still burning with whatever hellish drug they forced him to breath in. He collapses on his knees next to the river, leaning down for a drink, and the cool water provides relief as his swallows, then reaches his notably empty stomach. He’s eaten nothing but stale bits of bread for over a week now, and this is more physical activity than he’s seen in months. His legs won’t stop shaking, but he looks north, to the mountain rising in a dark green ridge above the forest. He can see a whisper of moonlight shining from around the peaks, setting with a promise of a new day to end this strange, endless night. A new day, with Kenma, that is what Kuroo wants. 

So he mounts his horse again, ignoring his shaking knees, and rides onward. _Cross three tributaries_ Kyotani said, _You’ll come to a road, follow it but stay out of sight. That close to the border, if you’re seen they’ll ask questions, and if they ask you questions well- we already talked about what happens to runaways._ He stays half a mile away from the road, hidden in the trees and darkness, but it’s for naught, as he passes no travellers this late into the night. 

_Look for a gap in the hill, a gulley between two cliffs_ Kyotani had said. It was easy enough to find, despite the unrelenting darkness. He jumps down and leads the horse across the road and up the steep ledge of the cliff. The horse’s footsteps clatter and echo off the stone walls, so loud that Kuroo cannot stop glancing back at the road below to make sure no one was there to hear them. 

_At the top, there’s a pond. That’s where you need to wait. If you get there by dawn, you should beat Akaashi, and if not- well. We’ll all be fucked, so just get out of there and fend for yourself the best you can._

The sun has not yet risen when Kuroo reaches the pond, and the stars are all hidden by a thick covering of clouds. Kuroo lets the horse drink, and reaches down to do so himself when he catches his reflection in the still water. It is a shadowed, wavy reflection but it's enough to remind him and fill him with disgust, so he drops down to his knees and splashes vigorously at the cheap grease paints that mar his face. The water is freezing, but he scrubs roughly and irreverently until his skin hurts and the sleeves of Oikawa’s lended shirt are soaked through. When he is done, his hands are numb, and his hair is dripping, but at least there is no more of the slick, oily paint on his face. 

Kuroo stands up shakily, spies a flat, long boulder across the clearing, and stumbles over to sit down and wait. 

After a few minutes, he starts to shiver. It is a cold night, and Kuroo was stupid. He should’ve been more careful to keep the water away from his shirt and hair, should have just kept the goddamn makeup on, because it will take forever for him to dry on a night like this. The chill is piercing, digging down into his bones. He draws his knees up to his chest, burying his face into his arms to warm his nose. 

He knows the road isn’t very far, but secreted away on the cliff, he feels for a moment as though he is the only person in the world, and it is a very lonely feeling. He can’t remember the last time he spent this much time alone and it is unsettling. He is suddenly very thankful for the horse grazing near the pond, for it’s calm presence, and for its steadfastness throughout the night. Kuroo rode hard, and fast, making great time through the forest and up the craggy hill. 

Kenma would be here soon. Kuroo could feel it, deep in his chest, a warmth he couldn’t remember if he ever felt this distinctly. It had been a long time since Kuroo believed in hope. He had never given up, not exactly, but there was a difference between attempting and believing and right now Kuroo believed that in any minute Kenma would appear on this cliffside by the pond. Would look at him, and maybe even smile an earnest smile, something neither of them have seen in a while. And they would have a new day together, and maybe even one after that. 

Kuroo feels a laugh bubbling in his throat, a strange, sudden thing that rises from his chest, and he has to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop the sound from escaping. Was this really happening? There was no master here, no guards, no cages. Nothing was keeping him here except for the promise of Kenma, which felt more like a lifeline than a chain. 

He hears a voice before he sees anything. It’s a low voice, clear, but definitely a man’s. There are footsteps as well, and the sound of hoofbeats on stone. Kuroo rises to his feet nervously. He doesn’t have a weapon, and for a moment he wishes he does, wishes he had something, anything, in case this wasn’t Kenma and Akaashi, or in case Oikawa lied. 

His horse whinnies in greeting when the other horse approaches. There’s a man leading it through the gully, and he stops abruptly, looking first at Kuroo’s horse, then Kuroo. “Are you Akaashi Keiji?” Kuroo asks?

The man does not respond. It is too dark to read his expression, and Kenma isn’t anywhere to be seen.

 _Fuck._ Kuroo thought. _Fuck._ This must all be some game of elaborate cat and mouse set up by a bored lord who liked to play chase. Kenma was probably god-knows-where, and now Kuroo would be dragged behind a horse back to Oikawa, who would laugh cruelly and then do even crueler things. He never should have trusted them. 

The man steps forward, tugging the horse behind him. Kuroo steps back himself, knees hitting the flat boulder behind him. Closer, Kuroo can see him better. He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would drag Kuroo back to a cruel master, but most men don’t and most men would. He has a kind looking face, with steel blue eyes that softened when they took in Kuroo’s appearance. His hair was neatly cut, shoulders strong but lithe, and his chain tapered down to a delicate, elegant point. 

"Do I know you?" the man asked. 

"Are- Are you Akaashi Keiji?" Kuroo stuttered out again. 

"Kuroo?" There is another clatter of footsteps as someone emerges onto the cliffside behind Akaashi. It's Kenma, leading another horse and carrying a small bundle of firewood. 

Kuroo's heart could explode. He launches himself across the clearing at Kenma, who drops the pile of sticks to the ground with a clatter to wrap his arms around Kuroo. There is silence for a moment, then laughter, and it takes Kuroo a moment to realize it is coming from him. He shakes in their embrace, cold, hungry, tired and in pain, but Kenma is here, Kenma is safe, they weren't lying, at least not about this. The laughter isn't stopping and Kuroo can feel a warm tear rolling down his cheek as he smiles down at his best friend. 

"What are you doing here Kuroo," Kenma reaches up to cup at Kuroo's cheek, "Yaku said he'd take you to the safe house, how did you get here?" 

"I- they- Oikawa," Kuroo stuttered but this was important and he had to get it right, he memorized it and practiced and he had to say it right. 

"You're looking for me? " Akaashi said, stepping forward again towards the pair, a calm, reassuring smile in place on his face. 

"Yes," Kuroo said, forcing himself to concentrate. "I have a message for you, from Oikawa and Kyotani. He said-- they said." He is shivering again, and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath, that breaks into a raspy cough, "They said--" 

"Hey," Akaashi interrupted gently, concern filling his grey blue eyes, "You're freezing, we should-" 

"You can't go the usual way!" Kuroo manages to blurt out, and _fuck,_ he'd practiced but he is still getting it wrong, but he _can't_ because even though he'd rehearsed in his head all night, he still didn't expect to find this guy, and Kenma is here and looking at him and he's right there and there is no one to stop him from reaching out to him and running, they could leave now, but _Oikawa hasn't lied so far_ so maybe there was a safehouse and freedom and a plan but not if he didn't stop _fucking this up_. "There's a warrant out for you, you can't--

"Are we in danger right here?" Akaashi asks, and his eyes are still filled with concern and Kuroo can't figure out why, "Right now?" 

"I- no?" Kuroo says. That wasn't part of the message. Kuroo was meant to find them here because it was a safe place. 

"Okay," Akaashi says, still with unfailing gentleness, "You've got a message. We've got food and firewood and blankets. Let's make camp, and once you are warmed up, you can give me the message." 

Kuroo shakes his head and stays rooted to the spot, can feel the "No" rising in his throat, because this was important and they had trusted him and Kenma had to be kept safe and-

"Kuroo," Kenma says his name firmly, and it reaches past the panic in his mind as Kenma's hand finds Kuroo's elbow. "It's okay. Sit down."

Kuroo's legs are shaking but he allows himself to be pushed back towards the long, flat boulder where he collapses into a sitting position. 

"It's okay," Kenma says as he places a blanket around Kuroo's trembling shoulders. 

"It's okay," Kenma says as he uses a spare rag to towel at Kuroo's still-wet hair while Akaashi builds a small but warm fire. 

"It's okay." 

And for the first time in a long time, Kuroo believes him.

It is dark in the covered wagon that the guards had herded Bokuto and a few too many other slaves into. They are packed together, elbows touching with no room to do anything but stand. He’s nervous in the close quarters and the dark, and tries to focus on his breathing. Bokuto hopes he will get to see Kuroo and Kenma soon.

He’s not stupid, he knows that he won’t see them much, a musician and a pleasure slave wouldn’t have much cause to make there way to the fields, but he’s content in the knowledge that they are together and out of the caravans and he will likely see them enough to remind himself of that fact.

The pair’s determination had cut through the three month fog in his brain in a way that was only comparable to the talents of Lord Akaashi who always could pull a smile out of Bokuto anytime with a well placed comment. Sometimes all it took was glance, a particular expression or flourish of the hand, and Bokuto would switch from utter despondency to sheer enamourment. It is a wonderful thing to be inspired by one’s friends, but it stopped being so wonderful when Bokuto stopped having friends. 

If they were ever friends to begin with. 

Bokuto’s status as a slave never seemed to mean much at Fukurodani, and it he’d been there for so long that he had no context for what he was outside of that estate. At Fukurodani Bokuto did jobs he enjoyed that gave him feelings of pride when he accomplished them, he had friends, and hobbies, and saw Lord Yamiji more as a father than a master, not a hard task considering the man had purchased Bokuto at the tender age of five from a roadside caravan not unlike the the one he’d found himself in.

He doesn’t have many memories before Fukurodani, flashes of a remembered hunger, of a mother who was always coughing with a smile that never quite reached her eyes who disappeared one night while Bokuto was asleep. He doesn’t know if she died, or was sold, but it doesn’t quite matter as he can’t even picture her face anymore. 

Things changed after Lord Yamiji passed. No one came for him. Not Akaashi, not Akinori, or Yamato. Fukurodani was never empty, always playing host to young nobles from around the continent who found refuge in Lord Yamiji’s easy-going nature. But the morning Bokuto woke up to find that Lord Yamiji had passed, the grounds were empty, not a soul in site, save for the doctor and province coroner. Everyone was gone, and Bokuto kept his head down as Lawyer’s came, and bailiff’s, people who made list and drew up deeds and one day the auctioneer came, and Bokuto kept waiting, kept his eyes down as he stood on the block and thought _no_ when the hammer fell and the man bellowed “Sold!”

He thought it had to be a mistake. That Akaashi, or Tatsuki would find him, realize he was gone and come to the caravan in their fine, noble clothes and sort things out with their clear, calm voices to take him home again. But days passed, then weeks, then a whole season, the cold winter carrying him farther south each day, and eventually Bokuto stopped looking for Akaashi’s pale white mare. It had only been a little over three months, but it felt like a lifetime. 

Bokuto does not expect to find a home at Lord Oikawa’s estate in quite the same way he did at Fukurodani. He realizes now that he was beyond lucky to have spent the last 16-odd years in relative comfort in safety, with people who treated him like he was a person. He may never have that again in his lifetime, but he tries to feel thankful that he experienced it all. 

Bokuto tries not to think morbid things, but he can feel the edges of the resilient gray fog beginning to tip-toe around the edges of his mind once more, whispering to him in the quiet of the covered wagon with no light to stamp it down. It is a sad thought, the knowledge that he would never see the Fukurodani Estate or it's frequent visitors again. That he would never see Akaashi again, and he feels the whirling tentative despair tickling at his mind.

The wagon stops moving. Odd, Bokuto was sure they had much further to travel, there is no way they’ve been travelling for even half an hour at this point. He hears yelling outside. The slaves shift uneasily, but none of them bother to look up. 

Eventually the fabric flap of the wagon is pushed open, “For fuck’s sake! They belong to Lord Oikawa! Do you know how much of a fuss he will kick up over missing property!” The man speaking was the tall, silver haired young man who had been driving the wagon.

“Oikawa can take it up with the law,” says the burly man who pushed open the flap to the wagon. He was wearing a soldier’s uniform. “I’m in charge in this province, and I say we need gravediggers. I’ve got too many goddamn corpses, and too many men who won’t go near them. It won’t matter if these shits catch the fucking plague and die. I’m requisitioning the lot of them.”

“You can’t do that!” the silver haired man shouts, but he is swatted away by the soldier like an irritated fly as he peers into the wagon.

“I’ll be fair, he can keep the women,” the soldier says. “But I’m taking all these able-bodied men. Tell Oikawa he can write it off as a tax-expense, and we thank him for his service to the crown.”

“I said you can’t!”

The soldier snorts, and apparently he can, or maybe Oikawa’s men don’t feel like fighting over less than a dozen field slaves. The soldier rouses the men, and leads them out into the open air where his squad is handing about with an aura of boredom.

Bokuto keeps his head down, looks at the grass under his feet. This is plague country. There are soldiers. There is no one around to help him, nowhere to go. He was going to die here, hungry and sick, and then be buried by some other poor soul destined for the same fate in an unmarked mass grave. 

He waits for the gray to overtake him, for the uncomfortable numbness that plagued his last three months to lead him quietly to his end, but it doesn’t come.

 _No,_ he thinks instead. _Fuck this._ If Kuroo and Kenma survived this long, fighting and spitting and biting, Bokuto could as well. He was strong, he was smart, and he got to be that way by spending time with people who cared about him. He would not do them the disservice of laying down to die. 

So, he decides in that moment, he’s going to run away the first chance he gets. If they catch him, he’s dead, but if he stays he’s dead anyway. Runaway deaths are painful, and messy, but probably quicker than dying from the plague. 

He listens with half an ear as Oikawa’s men demand the name of the soldier’s commander, as though they actually believe they can do something about it. They give up eventually, out-numbered and out-armed, riding away with the few women left in the now mostly empty wagon, glaring ineffectually at the soldiers behind them. 

The soldiers rope the slaves together, about six feet apart, connected at the ankles. It’s more comfortable than metal shackles, and also slightly more breakable, though it is still difficult to walk. They stumble forward in almost unison once the knots are tied, as a man carrying a whip barks, “Forward, march!”. They shamble forward, and walk not even half a mile when it starts to rain.

The road is soon slicked with mud, and all around Bokuto slaves are stumbling, slipping, and falling to the ground, pulling Bokuto forward and backwards as the rope around his ankle tugs with their momentum. Bokuto turns at one point to help the man behind him who has fallen, but the soldier notices and flicks his whip with a menacing crack above their heads. Bokuto falls back in line, keeping his head down and continuing the slow shuffle forward. 

They walk until well after dark. The rain doesn’t stop, and everywhere they go, every farm they pass, they are surrounded by the scent of death and disease. There are smoldering piles that might have been funeral pyres, no longer tended, and fresh mounts in the ground where bodies have been quickly buried. 

When they finally stop, one soldier comes down the line, untying everyone and pointing them off the road. Bokuto goes where he is ordered, not even looking up until a soldier shoves a wooden board into his hands. Bokuto squints through the dripping rain, and then the smell hits him.

It’s a grave, a massive grave, possibly an entire village. Bokuto closes his eyes for a moment, then listens to the soldier shout. The ground is nothing but sticky mud and the bodies have been lying in the open for at least a few days. The smell of rot permeates the air, and it is too dark and too rainy to see.

He kneels on the ground and begins to dig, as he is ordered. There are no shovels, only flat wooden boards, and the rain fills any new hole instantly.

But the soldiers aren’t getting any closer to the mass grave than they have to.

And Bokuto is untied.

He continues to dig, eyes cast downward, but he chances a glance up every few seconds. There is a fire in his veins, he feels it prickling under his skin and he feels almost giddy at the prospect of running. He counts the guards, watching their paces, studies what he can see in the dark and the rain. It is stupid and dangerous. He won’t make it far, he is tiring already with his half-hearted digging. He has no idea how he could possibly run from an entire squad of healthy well armed soldiers. 

But its dark, he is not shackled, and he knows with certainty if he stays he will die, so he can’t think of a single reason not to try. 

It takes him half an hour to decide on a plan. Another twenty minutes to dig the hole deep enough it would make a decent grave so he has an excuse to be moving. The rain is failing even heavier, freezing cold drops, and he can barely see ten feet in front of him. Perfect. The soldiers won’t be able to see either. 

He stands up straight, and stretches, feeling his back muscles pop and strain at the movement. He picks up his wooden board, and puts it over his shoulder. He’s got one chance, but he can do this. 

He walks slowly towards the main heap of bodies, lets himself stumble and cringe a little. Then he walks straight past the corpses. There is one guard standing on the other side, rubbing his hands together and stomping his feet against the cold. He looks young, around Bokuto’s age, and is deliberately avoiding looking at the gruesome pile of dead. It means the soldier isn’t watching properly. He doesn’t see Bokuto walk up silently behind him, and he crumples instantly and silently when Bokuto hits him over the head with his board. 

Bokuto’s first instinct is to run, but instead he takes a breath and grabs the guy's hat, boots, weapons, and thick military coat, putting them on quickly. He drags the unconscious soldier toward the dead bodies, and drops him amongst the closest ones, tucking him between a rail thin girl and a large man with heavy bloated cheeks. 

By the time the soldiers pacing the perimeter come by, all there is to see is Bokuto in uniform, face hidden by his collar. Bokuto gives them a salute, they salute back and hurry on. They don’t want to hang around the pile of corpses either. He waits another ten minutes, until the lights from their lanterns are as far from his as they will get. Then he walks off into the night. 

He trudges through the wet grass, as the mud sloshes around his boots. His own breathing sounds unbelievably loud in his ears. The tingling sensation is still thrumming under his skin. He doesn’t run, not yet, there’s a good chance they’ll hear someone running and wonder why. He wants to, though, is aching to put as much distance as possible between himself and the soldiers, but he restrains himself. He walks and walks and walks, into a sparse forest where he reaches a narrow river, and when he turns to look back, the soldiers' lanterns have disappeared into the darkness beyond the thin, scrubby winter trees, too far to see.  


He isn’t worried about being tracked. The rain comes thicker, faster, soaking him in ice cold water, and washing his every footstep away. 

Bokuto lets out a long, slow exhale, turning and looking towards the north and the craggy hills and mountains ahead. Then, he _runs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I missed an update last week. :c
> 
> I'm sorry guys, work has been extremely stressful, like 70 hours a week stressful, and my depression has been fogging up my brain.
> 
> Here's the chapter though, a few days early! I really enjoyed writing this Kuroo chapter, I finally felt good about it, and it was so nice to see Akaashi's quiet concern. He just wants to take care of all of these crazy runaways. Mama Akaashi. 
> 
> We also get more Bokuto! He was absent last chapter, but he is back. We got a little reminiscing about Fukurodani and Akaashi and what happened to Bo to have him end up in the caravan. Kuroo and Kenma have inspired him to not give a fuck, so that's cool for him. All of our boys are on the way to freedom now. 
> 
> Next chapter we get the first Akaashi POV (I'm terrified) and probably Kenma??? Maybe? I'm not sure, I know what is happening next, I don't know from whose POV it is happening from. 
> 
> As always, your comments give me strength. I feel terrible about shorting you guys a chapter, but I should have some extra time this weekend, so we'll def have a chapter out next week, and maybe either a bonus POV, or a short little Iwaoi side story, since I still can't get Feudal Lord Oikawa out of my head. I hope you all are having a good week.
> 
> ~Tantrum <3


	5. Bokuto IV and Akaashi I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto and Akaashi reunite. Kenma comes up with a plan.

Bokuto keeps running. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know where he is going, but his feet are pulling him northwards, so that is where he goes. He knows that across the border there are provinces where slavery is illegal, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t get caught and sent back, though he’s sure it would be a struggle to return him to his proper owner when even Bokuto has no clue who that is anymore.

He briefly considers heading back to the Fukurodani Estate, perhaps trying to track down Akaashi or any of his other friends, but surely if they had concern for him they would’ve found him by now. It wouldn’t have been hard, auctions were a matter of public record, and there aren’t that many caravans travelling in the province, and the majority of them hit the same large, seasonal markets. Additionally, heading back to Fukurodani seemed like a great way to get caught and tried as a runaway. The locals around the estate knew his face, knew him as the young slave boy Lord Yoshiki bought and raised. 

There were plenty of disapproving mutters at Bokuto and Lord Yoshiki, especially at Lord Yoshiki and his unwillingness to ever marry or produce an heir. Bokuto always assumed that was part of the reason so many young noblemen found themselves at the Fukurodani Estate. They were hoping to spend time with Lord Yoshiki, gain his favor, and maybe be left a sizable chunk of the estate when the old man passed as he had no family of his own. 

Akaashi never seemed to care about that though. He would ride in occasionally, spend a week or two at the estate helping Lord Yoshiki and Bokuto with whatever grand project had caught the old Lord’s fancy at the time. Re-cataloguing the extensive estate library had been a particularly tedious job, but Akaashi had never complained, and his interest in Lord Yoshiki’s stories always seemed unfailingly earnest. Sometimes Bokuto would catch Akaashi and Lord Yoshiki tucked away in the older man’s study at night, pouring over maps and diagrams that Bokuto could never find the next day when he went looking, and talking in hushed, frantic voices. Akaashi always managed to pull Bokuto’s interests. He was kind, but unafraid to tease, and always seemed to know the right things to say to lift the spirits of those around him. Quiet, observant, and beautiful, with a smile that made Bokuto’s world stop turning for a moment. 

While life at Fukurodani had been good, Bokuto was under no delusions about his status in the world. He would never be free, would be willed to one of the countless young men that flooded the estate after the inevitable passing of the aging Lord Yamiji. Bokuto knew he didn’t get a say, but he secretly hoped it would be Akaashi. There were a lot of things Bokuto knew he would never get to do. Never travel, never own anything, never marry. 

Sometimes Bokuto would imagine what things would’ve been like if he and Akaashi met differently. If Bokuto wasn’t a slave, but a freeman, perhaps another nobleman that would visit Lord Yamiji. Maybe they would meet on the road to Fukurodani, and decide to ride together. They would exchange names, then jokes, then fall into the easy camaraderie that so often leads to more. Bokuto has had sex before. There were plenty of willing servants and even the odd nobleman at Fukurodani who found Bokuto appealing, but he’d never been in love, not really, and he likes to imagine that he could love Akaashi. That in another life, one where Bokuto could travel, could own property, could marry, it would be Akaashi he would choose to do those things with. But as it was, Bokuto was destined to be handed off from one master to another, and he couldn’t help but wish for that master to be Akaashi. Maybe Akaashi could never belong to Bokuto, but Bokuto didn’t think he would mind belonging to Akaashi. 

Ultimately neither Akaashi, nor any of the other visiting nobles ended up with Bokuto, and Bokuto was unsure who owned the Fukurodani estate now, or if Lord Yamiji had is sold and willed the profits to any of the countless young nobles who found a temporary home there. Maybe none of them wanted Bokuto. He knew some of them thought Lord Yamiji spoiled him, that he was not treated according to his station, thought that Bokuto was never hard-working enough or obedient enough. That he was too loud, too familiar with freemen. For all Bokuto knows it was Akaashi himself who inherited the estate and ordered him sold. 

It is still raining when day breaks, and the sunrise is just a subtle shift in the shade of gray cloud overhead. Bokuto is travelling next to a river, and the landscape is starting to change from flat ground to steep hillsides, and he can feel his feet and legs starting to tire. He is trying to stay alert, listening for any unfamiliar sounds and watching in the shadows, but he is tired and it is all he can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

He stumbles over an unexpected brand and almost falls, but catches himself. His head is spinning, and he is suddenly aware of how wet and cold his body is. He moves forward, and forward and forward, and suddenly he finds himself on a narrow road, cutting a path between the woods behind him, and the cliffside ahead. The rain is slowing down to a drizzle, and Bokuto leans unsteadily against the cliff face as he takes a moment to breath. There’s a gully in-between the two cliff faces, and though Bokuto was intending the head North, he doesn’t think he can make the journey up the steep path, and looks back at the road behind him. West or East? 

Before he can make his decision he hears the steady thump of marching coming from down the road. Soldiers, likely a whole squad based on the sound. He can’t stay on the road, and at this point won’t be able to cross far enough south into the woods to avoid being seen. He is to go forward, and up. He heaves his body upright, scampering up the steep path, and Bokuto is aching. The cold, the running, the absolute exhaustion, it is all catching up to him. He is stumbling forward, feet catching over the loose rocks and gravel and he falls, twice, forward onto his hands and knees. He is far away enough from the road now that he can’t be seen, but he keeps climbing. 

“Stupid, stupid,” he mutters under his breath. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding. He contemplates falling to his knees and drinking out of a puddle of the still-falling rainwater, but he’s unsure if he would have the energy to get back up. “Stupid.” 

He needs to stop, needs to rest, and he tries to steady his breathing but all he can hear is the rushing of blood in his own ears. He hasn’t been paying attention, he knows he should be, but he hasn’t and there’s something- something is wrong.

He shivers, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There’s something- maybe someone?- but he can’t see anybody, can’t hear anything, just silence. The rain falling, his own ragged breathing, and silence. 

He takes another five steps, stops to breathe, then another five steps, before falling onto his knees. And when he looks forward, he sees footprints in the mud. Fresh, just filling up with rainwater, with distinctly sharp edges.

 _Fuck._ Bokuto’s heart is thudding painfully in his chest. He looks around wildly, reaching for his stolen pistol at this belt, but there’s no time to draw it. There’s a flicker of movement to his left, a dark shadow moving in the dim light of the clouded dawn, but before he can turn to face it, he hears a grunt, sees something swinging toward him, and everything goes dark. 

When Bokuto comes too, he is facedown in the mud, his soldier’s cap is still tucked over his hair and face, but he is bound at hand and foot. He can see the feet of a man standing beside him, and he is afraid for a moment to look up, but he stuffles briefly against the ropes, which sends a wave of pain through his aching overworked body and makes his head throb, so he stops, quickly. 

“Are you awake?” The man says, and Bokuto… Bokuto knows that voice. “You’ve weren’t out for very long. Where’s the rest of your squad? There shouldn’t be anything around for a couple of miles, and a soldier alone is usually a scout, but if you’re a scout you’re pretty lousy at it, lumbering around making that much noise.” He knows that voice, it's musical and comforting, even when accusing. Bokuto shifts his head to the side, and he can see more of the man’s body now, but the brim of his own hat is preventing him from catching the man’s face. 

He has Bokuto’s pistol in his hand, is twirling it absentmindedly as he monologues, and for a moment Bokuto has no idea what he is talking about, until he remembers the soldier’s regalia he is dressed in. He’s been left where he’d fallen, seemingly only disturbed enough to have his wrists and feet bound behind him, and the man said it hadn’t been long, but the rain has finally stopped.

“I don’t really know what to do with you,” the man continues, and Bokuto knows, but what is he doing here? Why would he be here, in this province, and in the middle nowhere in the mountains, knocking out soldiers? “I thought about slitting your throat, I’ll be honest. Leaving you here will kill you just as surely, and I can’t let you go, not if you are actually a scout tailing us. But I’ll give you a chance to-”

“Akaashi?” Bokuto’s voice is gravelly, but the name comes out clear.

The man stops, freezes, and the pistol falls to the ground with a clatter. Bokuto flinches, but before he can move, the man’s hands are on him, removing his soldier’s cap, and pulling down the high collar of his jacket. Bokuto meets the cool blue eyes he hasn’t seen in months, and feels a sense of relief, like releasing a deep breath he’d forgotten he was holding. 

“Bokuto?” Akaashi chokes out, and Bokuto feels the whisper of a smile cross his face. “Bo- What? What are you doing here?”

But Bokuto doesn’t know what to say. He is exhausted, and his arms are twinging where they are tied behind him, but Akaashi asked him a question, so he shifts uncomfortably and opens his mouth to speak.

“Wait-” Akaashi says, pulling out a knife, and Bokuto flinches again. “Sorry- I-, hold on,” and then Akaashi is cutting through his bindings carefully. Bokuto winces at the pins and needles feeling that floods through his limbs as he lets them collapse by his side. Akaashi slowly helps him into a sitting position, leaning him against a large, jutting rock a few feet away. 

Akaashi looks- afraid is the only word that is coming to Bokuto’s mind. His brow is furrowed with a deep worry, and Bokuto’s never seen his eyes this clouded over. “Hey, Hey, Hey,” he tries, treating Akaashi to one of his former clownish grins, but his voice cracks, the smile feels wrong, and for once Akaashi doesn’t smile back, and the worry stays on his face. 

“Bokuto,” Akaashi starts, and there’s a barely noticeable tremor in his voice, “What are you doing this far south? Why aren’t you at Fukurodani?”

And Bokuto is confused, because surely Akaashi must’ve heard about Lord Yamiji’s death.

“I- Lord Yamiji passed, Akaashi. Have you not heard?” And relief fills Bokuto, maybe Akaashi hadn’t forgotten about him, maybe he had been busy over the last few months and was travelling north now for Fukurodani. 

“I know,” Akaashi says, “I’d heard, but why-”

“You knew?” Bokuto asks, and his heart sinks. “Then why didn’t you come? No one came, after, he was so sick and he died alone and then no one came.” And Bokuto is trying very hard not to be angry, because this is Akaashi and he is never angry at Akaashi, but it seemed so unfair. Lord Yamiji opened his home and his life to these men, and then he died cold and alone with no one but Bokuto at his side. They crawled around Fukurodani for years, hoping to gain the man’s favor, for money, for land, for whatever reason, then they left him to die alone, without even the courtesy to show up for a funeral. He thought Akaashi was different, but perhaps not.

“I haven’t been able to travel much recently,” Akaashi says carefully, “but I’m sorry for your loss Bokuto. Lord Yamiji was a great man, who did so many wonderful things, and I carry his loss with me every day.”

“If you cared you would have been there,” Bokuto says, and he’s suddenly sure of it. “You knew he was sick, he was ill when you left for the last time, he knew he was dying. You left anyway, and you never came back- and then-”

Bokuto stops. Akaashi wouldn’t care about what had happened to him since Lord Yamiji’s death. If he didn’t care enough about Lord Yamiji to travel for his funeral, to mourn for the man, he certainly wouldn’t care about that man’s slave. 

Akaashi eyes harden, “Bokuto, I know you are upset, but please. I loved Lord Yamiji, he was my friend, and if I could have been there I would have. I can explain why I wasn’t there, but I need to know what you are doing so far south. Why aren’t you at Fukurodani, and why are you dressed like a soldier? Did you join the army?”

“What?” Bokuto looks at Akaashi with confusion. Why would he still be at Fukurodani? And how could Bokuto have joined the army? “Slaves can’t join the army Akaashi, you know that.” Akaashi freezes. “A squad repossessed me and some other slaves after we were bought from the caravan, and I ran away.” Bokuto freezes at the admission, “Wait- I mean, please Akaashi don’t turn me in, please. You can’t bring me back, I’ll die.” 

But Akaashi is just staring, completely still. His hand has been brought up to cover his mouth, and there is a horrified look in his eyes that Bokuto had never seen on the man before. 

“Akaashi?”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says carefully, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened after Lord Yamiji’s death.”

So Bokuto does. Tells Akaashi about the empty estate, about the lawyers and coroners and bailiffs and auctioneers. About how there was no funeral for Lord Yamiji, because no one was there to have one, how his body was stuffed into the back of the coroner’s wagon and carted off. How Bokuto waited for someone, anyone, to come and claim him and the rest of the Fukurodani estate but no one showed up. How he was sold to the caravan, spent the last few months travelling further and further south, unsold due to the plague. How he was bought by Lord Oikawa, and here Akaashi lets out a sad little laugh, the first noise he’s made since Bokuto began recounting his story. Then the soldiers, and the graves, and the running. And Akaashi just stares, disbelieving.

“Bokuto-” Akaashi starts, “I- this was never supposed to happen and I’m sorry.”

Bokuto says nothing. His mouth is dry and he is tired, and his feelings are swirling in his chest, messy and undefined. 

“No one came to claim Fukurodani, Bokuto, because it was left to you,” Akaashi says. And, what? That made no sense, slaves can’t own property, even if that was in Lord Yamiji’s will it wouldn’t hold up. “Lord Yamiji freed you upon his death, and left everything to you. I know because I was a witness when he signed the papers. I signed them too, and I have a copy. It was filed with the province, notarized and approved on my last visit to Fukurodani.” 

“No,” Bokuto says, and he is spiraling. This makes no sense, Akaashi must be lying, but why else would no one come to claim the estate? “No, he would’ve told me. He didn’t tell me. Why would he die without telling me?”

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says gently, and now his hand is on Bokuto’s shoulder, grounding him. “But Lord Yamiji loved you like a son, Bokuto. You were his son, in the ways that mattered.”

“Then why would he wait until he died to free me?” Bokuto says, “If he loved me, if I was his son, why wouldn’t he free me sooner? Was he afraid I would leave?” The idea is bizarre to Bokuto. Even when he contemplated having freedom, it was never out of desire to leave Fukurodani, to leave his home. 

“I can explain that too,” Akaashi sighs, “but it's a longer story. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you, perhaps he was ashamed of not freeing you sooner, but there was a reason Bokuto. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I wanted to be there, I was supposed to be there, but it wasn’t safe for me to travel. I sent Tatsuki. I haven’t heard from him, but I assumed he was staying at the estate and helping you get adjusted, and I haven’t been in one place long enough to receive a letter. Did he not show up?”

“No.” says Bokuto, and Akaashi’s face gets graver still.

“That’s… concerning.” And now Bokuto is the one feeling sick. Tatsuki was reliable, if Akaashi sent him to Fukurodani for Bokuto, he would’ve done everything he could to make it there. And if he hadn’t shown up- “But we shouldn’t assume the worse. Maybe he just missed you, and has been looking, like I said I haven’t exactly been in a situation to be receiving letters, but there may be one waiting at the safe house.”

“Safe house?” Bokuto questions. 

“There’s so much to explain,” Akaashi says, “and I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but I’ve been gone for a while and we need to get back to the others.”

“Others?”

“Yes,” Akaashi says, “You may know them I guess, they were also ‘bought’ by Oikawa,” he says bought in a strange tone, almost with a snort, “I’m assuming from the same caravan as you. One road north with me from the inn, and Oikawa sent the other to deliver a message.”

A brief laugh escaped Bokuto. Could it really be them? There was a chance, a small one, and Bokuto’s heart leapt at the thought.

Akaashi helped Bokuto stand, and started to lead him forward to the same flat expanse of ground where they’d found Kuroo the night before. There was a small cave to the north of the clearing, and it wasn’t far, but Akaashi could tell Bokuto was exhausted, his powerful legs trembling slightly beneath him as they moved forward. 

Their horses were still stationed by the lake, drinking happily from the clear waters as they passed them into the dim light of the cave. Bokuto found himself on an expanse of large flat rock that hosted a clear, still lake. Kuroo was splayed out on a blanket with a bag curled up underneath his head as a makeshift pillow, the young man collapsing yesterday morning after delivering the message and had not woken up much since except to wheeze and exchange whispers with Kenma.

Damn Oikawa for sending the boy half starved, barefoot and barely clothed into the freezing weather. They were meant to take care of the people they were trying to help, not send them off to run themselves into the ground. Not throw them into jobs Oikawa and his men should be doing, not make them clean up messes. Oikawa was a lot of things, painfully idealistic, and hardworking to name a few, but thoughtful wasn’t on the list of adjectives that came to Akaashi’s mind. 

Kenma is kneeling next to Kuroo, and as Akaashi and Bokuto step far enough into the cave that they can see the two in the dim light, Bokuto freezes beside him.

“Akaashi,” Kenma says at the sound of their footsteps, but he doesn’t look away from Kuroo, and his voice is tinged with worry. “I think he may have a fever.”

Of course he does. Akaashi was going to kill Oikawa the next time he saw him. “Okay,” Akaashi says, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “I’ll go back out and look for some willow bark. Just make sure you are keeping him warm and giving him water.”

“Kenma?” Bokuto says, and there’s a reverence in his voice. They must know each other after all.

“Bokuto?” Kenma says, and he raises his eyebrow in a way Akaashi has come to read as shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I-” Bokuto starts, but Akaashi cuts him off.

“It’s a long story and Bokuto needs to rest.” Akaashi says. “I’ll start another fire, the warmth will do them both good. We’ll need food as well, with four of us we only have enough for a couple of days and that won’t get us to Tsukkishima’s, especially if Kuroo isn’t fit for travel now. I’ll set some traps for rabbits. In the meantime-” Akaashi rummages in his bag and tosses a small leather pouch to Bokuto. “Eat. It’s some dried meats and cheese. Then sleep. You are dead on your feet. There’s extra blankets in the saddle bags.”

Bokuto nods, but hesitates, like there’s something he wants to say, but whatever it is dies as he opens the bag of jerky and sits crossed legged, close enough to Kenma and Kuroo that he can make out Kuroo’s sleeping face, but more than a respectful distance away. Odd. The Bokuto Akaashi knew had no such boundaries. Would sooner link arms and fall into casual friendly contact than hold any kind of distance. Never hesitated or held his tongue. How much could someone change in three months?

Akaashi is furious with himself for what had happened to Bokuto, and suddenly the cave feels stifling. He quickly restarts their fire from the night before, then all but bolts out of the small cave, taking a deep breath once he is in the open cold air. The guilt is heavy. Akaashi hasn’t thought of Bokuto but for a handful of times in the past three months. Concern for their shared grief over Lord Yamiji. Hope he was adjusting well to his new position as Lord of Fukurodani. Jealousy, at he and Tatsuki for being safely held up for winter at Fukurodani while Akaashi ran and climbed and hid and smuggled. When Akaashi thought of Fukurodani, he thought of peace. It felt like the one place on the continent he could rest, could breath, could give a smile that was genuine. It would be hard to visit there without Lord Yamiji, but Bokuto had been groomed since he was a child to take the man’s place, and somewhere along the way the comfort of Fukurodani was provided in a large part by Bokuto’s easy nature and loud personality. 

Who knows what happened to Fukurodani now. Who owned it, what was done with it. Maybe that’s why the soldiers had a warrant out for Akaashi at all, maybe they’d found the expansive tunnel systems underneath the manor. That was more than enough reason to look for Akaashi, everyone knew about the extensive time he spent there.

The warrant, as if Akaashi didn’t have enough to worry about. They couldn’t wait long, Tsukkishimi needed to be warned about the soldiers' movements in the pass, otherwise their whole operation would be at risk. Akaashi couldn’t help but imagine the consequences. Hundreds of slaves declared runaways and executed. Oikawa imprisoned, likely executed himself, probably publicly, along with all of his supporters. Akaashi, Yaku, Kyoutani, Iwaizumi would be on the chopping block as well. Maybe a few of the more peripheral members would make it out. The ones running the safehouses, and their financial benefactors might make it out alive, but they wouldn’t be able to rebuild, not really, and the decade of hard work would be for nothing. 

Well, not nothing. There were already dozens of freed slaves safely off the continent, building new lives as free men and women. That would never be nothing. But with so much work still left to do, Akaashi felt sick at the possibility of it all ending. 

He had made his way down from the gulley and across the road, and set up traps in various places throughout the sparse forest. He hoped for rabbit, squirrels were more finicky to clean, but he guesses he can’t be picky with four mouths to feed for at least a few more days. He finds a willow tree, and strips some bark for tea for Kuroo. They didn’t have the time to wait more than a day or two more before moving on. His fever has to break in time or- well, Akaashi doesn’t know what an alternative is. 

Kenma said he was drugged by the caravan before Oikawa showed up, and Akaashi is guessing chloroform. Given the coughing, they’ll be lucky if Kuroo doesn’t have walking pneumonia from the damage the gas did to his lungs and his jaunt in the rain. 

They never seemed to catch a break. It’s dizzying. The last six months has felt like a string of problems Akaashi is expected to solve, only his solutions just seemed to bring more problems. It was too much, there weren’t enough of them, they weren’t safe enough, and Akaashi wasn’t smart enough to solve this, not when he can’t stop to catch a breath. 

He has no idea how to get through the pass to Tsukkishima. He had scouted ahead last night, and there were no breaks in the squadrons of soldiers patrolling that side of the mountain. They couldn’t sneak through, not with four of them, though Akaashi doubts he could accomplish it by himself either. But there were three people looking to him for an answer on how they could move forward, and more people than that counting on him, so he had to come up with something.

He crouches down into a squat near a tree and places his head in his hands. One thing at a time. They can’t leave until Kuroo’s fever breaks, so that has to be fixed first. Then they could come up with a plan to get through the pass. Once they get to the safehouse, everything would be fine. Two more things. Get Kuroo well, then get to the safehouse. It was just two more things. 

But Akaashi knows how one task can fracture into a thousand, and feels anxiety bubbling in his chest. He’s been gone for hours now, setting up traps and finding the willow tree, and now crouching, paralyzed in thought. He doesn’t want to return to the cave without a solution, but Kuroo needs the willow bark and hiding in the forest won’t accomplish anything, so he stands with a sigh, and schools his face into his neutral calm expression as he makes his way back up the gulley. 

Bokuto is situated a little closer to Kenma now, and they are talking, quietly to not disturb Kuroo, but deep enough in their conversation that they don’t notice Akaashi enter. Akaashi sighs quietly, he was hoping Bokuto would rest, but apparently that didn’t happen. He grabs a small pot out of his saddlebag and begins to boil the willow bark in water for Kuroo’s tea. The clattering finally manages to pull Bokuto and Kenma’s attention, and Akaashi forces himself to put on a smile at the two. Kenma remains expressionless, but Bokuto grins back, and Akaashi is glad to see him more animated. 

“Akaashi! You’re back!” Bokuto calls across the cave, and Kenma shushes him, looking down worriedly at Kuroo, who groans slightly in his sleep. Akaashi wouldn’t call Kuroo’s sleeping restful from what he has observed, tossing and groaning with a furrowed brow, but Akaashi doubts a former pleasure slave has many peaceful things to dream about, and the sick feeling in his stomach returns. 

“Kenma came up with a plan,” Bokuto says, “for how to get through the pass.”

“It’s not very good,” Kenma says, quietly, looking down at Kuroo, “Just- Just an idea.”

Bokuto frowns, “No, it’s good! If Akaashi says there’s no way to sneak through, I don’t see another option.”

Akaashi pauses in his stirring, looking at the three huddled former slaves. Kenma is quiet, looking down at Kuroo and his fingers are tapping in the same 1-3-2-4 pattern Akaashi had noticed on their ride over. Bokuto is looking at Akaashi though, fist clenched into the leg of his pants. 

“He thinks we should steal some clothes from the villages and go through in broad daylight.”

“They know what I look like,” Akaashi points out.

“But no one ever really looks at slaves,” Kenma speaks up, “If I pretended to be a gentlemen discreetly transporting his new pleasure slave somewhere, and you were there to see to the horses-”

Akaashi nods. It’s not- it’s not a good plan, it sounds like a terrible plan, there are a thousand things that could go wrong, but he doesn’t see where they have much of a choice. He hadn’t been surprised when he thought he saw a soldier scouting in the gulley. He won’t be surprised when actual soldiers come.

“Can you do it?” Akaashi asks, “Can you act like a nobleman.”

“I am a nobleman,” Kenma says, “Or well. I was. I was born free, and I- I used to do impressions of all of the hoity city noblemen I’d play music for in the city. I can do it. I know what to do. I know how they act.” 

Akaashi nods again. It’d be on Kenma to pull it off, but then the problem is- “Bokuto? That would have been a great plan before, but what about Bokuto? One nobleman doesn’t need to travel with three slaves.”

“I’ll be a soldier,” Bokuto says. “An injured soldier on his way home, travelling with a friend he met on the road. I have the outfit and everything."

“You do look injured,” Kenma says, reaching out and tracing a finger down the side of Bokuto’s face where a nasty bruise is forming. Bokuto startles at the touch, but lets it happen, eyes open wide at Kenma.

“Sorry,” Akaashi says, because of course, he did knock Bokuto out with a branch a few hours prior. He’s surprised he doesn’t have a concussion. “I didn’t know-”

“It’s okay Akaashi,” Bokuto reassures him.

Akaashi returns to stirring the boiling pot of willow bark, “We won’t be able to steal from the village until after dark.”

“I’m not leaving Kuroo,” Kenma shoots out.

“It’s okay,” Akaashi assures, “You don’t have to. Bokuto and I can go.”

“And we aren't leaving until his fever breaks.”

Akaashi raises his eyebrows at the command. “Of course not.”

He pours the water from the steeped willow bark into a tin mug and carries it over to where Kenma is sitting. Kenma takes it, lets it cool off in less-than-comfortable silence, and out of the corner of his eye, Akaashi sees Bokuto finally losing the jittery nervous energy he was carrying since he’d woken up. Bokuto’s shoulders relax, and he shifts to lean against the cave wall with his eyes closed.

When Kenma deems the tea cool enough, he reaches underneath Kuroo’s head to tilt him up and bring the cup to his lips. Kuroo stirs. “Kuroo?” Kenma says. “You need to drink this.”

Kuroo mumbles and shakes his head, but Kenma is persistent, and brings the mug to his lips. “C’mon, please?”

Kuroo sighs, and takes a few deep gulps of the tea before Kenma allows him to fall back into his makeshift pillow, back into his troubled sleep. Kenma sits back on his heels, sets the now half-empty mug on the cave floor.

“You’re going to have to be a really convincing nobleman, you know,” he tries to keep his voice light, but they both know it's not a joke.

“I know,” says Kenma. He’s curled up into himself, knees tucked under his chin. His eyes won’t leave Kuroo, “But I can do it. I have to do it.” 

They all have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very unbeta-ed but I wanted to get it posted before I left for a dinner. I liked writing Akaashi but also man did I project some of my work stress on Akaashi. Like a lot.
> 
> A lot is revealed about Bokuto and why no one came for him, and we get a bit of a taste of what's to come next chapter. It feels weird to have so little Kuroo and Kenma in a chapter, those are my boys! But Bokuto and Akaashi had to have their moments. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy! There should be a chapter out next weekend as well, thanks as always for all the comments and support, y'all make this possible. If it weren't for the comments I probably wouldn't have the energy to write like I do, y'all really make my week a lot of the time.
> 
> Also a note about the ages. Kuroo is 21, Kenma is 20. Bokuto is 23 and Akaashi is a few years older, probably 25/26. 
> 
> ~Tantrum


	6. Akaashi II & Kenma IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans never work out perfectly. Bokuto is in over his head and Kenma does something unforgivable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger for dubcon? ish? No actual sex happens but there is definitely some dub/non con touching? You'll see, I'm sorry. Also tw for alcohol?
> 
> Are you in the right headspace to receive information that may hurt you? Okay? Proceed.

With the rabbits Akaashi’s trapped and smoked, they have enough food to last them another week, but their mission is a timely one, and Tsukkishima and the others need the information now rather than later. Travelling on the main road will buy them a day or two, but they’ve spent three days in the damp little cave already waiting vainly for Kuroo’s condition to improve. 

When Akaashi and Bokuto had returned from their first nightly jaunt into the village laden with clothes they had stolen off of various clotheslines, Kenma had taken one look at their haul, pronounced it unworthy then turned back to Kuroo. Kenma withdrew more into himself with each passing day, interacting less and less with Akaashi and Bokuto and the small cave felt divided. Akaashi continued to brew willow bark for Kuroo, and whenever he would approach the pair, Kenma would tense, and bristle, shoulders rising in defense. Kenma would snatch the cup, and Akaashi would back away silently to resume his hushed conversations with Bokuto at the mouth of the cave. 

Akaashi and Bokuto have gone out to steal more clothing every night, as none yet have managed to meet Kenma’s rigorous but undefined standards. They are practically professionals when it comes to nabbing things off of laundry lines, and the pile of mismatched, discarded clothes grows daily, most of which Kenma has piled on top of Kuroo in an attempt to keep him warm as the fever advances and recedes.

It would be little funny, the sight of Kuroo piled under the discarded clothing, which for some reason included a pair of bright purple trousers, a feathered cap, and a ladies nightgown Bokuto insisted on taking, if not for the coughing. It was a horrible sound that echoed so loudly in the cave, Akaashi had been sure it could be heard from the road until he scrambled down to check. Rasping, and grating, the coughs shook Kuroo’s entire frame as he stared forward, glassy eyed and confused. 

He is getting better, but slowly. By the third day, Kuroo is coherent the majority of the time he is awake, able to eat and drink, and the coughing has lessened, but he is still warm with fever no matter how much willow bark they force into him. They are running out of time, and Kenma is getting more and more irritable with every passing day. He sleeps wrapped around Kuroo, fingers resting on his neck like he needs the reassurance of a pulse point. Bokuto tries to talk to him, but just gets snarled at, and at one point when Bokuto and Akaashi’s whispered conversations draws a loud, hearty laugh from Bokuto (the laugh Akaashi would think about whenever riding back for a visit to Fukurodani, what could he say to Bokuto to get that laugh, was stories or jokes had he picked up on his last visit to draw out that joy out of the man) Kenma had turned his head menacingly and hissed at the both of them to _’Shut the fuck up’_ and Bokuto looks so overwhelmingly hurt for a moment before shaking his head, and apologizing in the same quiet tone they’d been carrying their conversations in.

“He’s just worried about his friend,” Bokuto had whispered with a small conciliatory smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m worried too. Is that- I know I don’t really know them that well, I really only spoke to Kuroo once, but I just-”

Akaashi puts his arm around Bokuto’s shoulders, drawing the man into a one armed hug. “It’s okay to care about them Bokuto.” 

It’s hard not to care for the two. Despite Kenma's ever-more-prickly attitude the last few days, everything he'd observed from the two was unable to inspire anything but care.

Bokuto had recounted to Akaashi their time in the caravan. _”They're brave, they're so brave,”_ Bokuto whispered, _”Kuroo bit this buyer, and it was horrible, he's a- well you know, and what they did to him afterwards was- But he didn't care, and apparently they've done it before, they’d do anything to not be separated. They- They take care of each other.”_ Bokuto had said it with an equal mixture of reverence and longing, and it added a new layer of understanding to Kenma’s careful bedside vigil. Coupled with Akaashi’s already strong admiration for the pair's resilience, it hurt to look at them for how much Akaashi already cared, and how much of their hurting felt like Akaashi's fault. 

"We have to leave soon," Akaashi says, "I know I told Kenma we wouldn't but we're running out of time. And if Kuroo hasn’t gotten better by now, he might not ever. He needs a doctor. Yamaguchi is at Tsukishima's, he'll be able to help." 

"You know a doctor who works on slaves?" Bokuto says, voice tinged with surprise.

"Former slaves," Akaashi says, "None of you are slaves anymore, you've all been freed. As long as we do our jobs, you'll never be slaves again."

Akaashi had explained to Bokuto about Oikawa and their operation the night before. 

"I hate this," Bokuto said, "The waiting. We need to go, we need to move, we need to get somewhere safe."

"As soon as Kuroo can ride," Akaashi promises, though that's looking like a growing impossibility every day, so Akaashi amends, "As soon as we can. We have to."

On the fifth day when Akaashi comes back from checking his traps in the morning, he sees Bokuto dressing himself in his stolen army uniform. Kenma is watching with crossed arms and narrow eyes, but Kuroo is awake and upright, more or less. His eyes are still glazed over, face a little flushed, but he is awake, and he's alert and digging through the pile of discarded clothes when Akaashi enters the cave.

"We're leaving today," Bokuto says, "We told him the plan and Kuroo says he's well enough to ride."

Akaashi lays a critical eye on Kuroo. Whether it's true or not, they can't really afford to spend any more time here. He turns to Kenma, and asks, hesitantly, "Are you sure?"

Kuroo's shoulders raise slightly at the question, but Kenma nods. "Bokuto says you know a doctor. At the rendezvous." It's more words than Kenma had spoken at all the day before, and Akaashi nods, relieved. 

Kenma nods back, then begins sorting through his own pile of accumulating clothes, finding a deep red brocade waistcoat he layers over a white silk shirt and cream breeches. There are even stockings, which Kenma tucks into his Yaku's lended boots. Akaashi finds his own outfit, a shabby, patched pair of trousers and linen shirt in similar condition. Kuroo hesitates for a moment, stripping himself of the silk shirt Oikawa had lended him, and finding the tightest, blackest pants in the pile and drawing them up over his long legs. They are too short, and hit him mid calf, but it somehow looks intentional instead of ill-fitting. 

Kenma and Kuroo have a silent conversation over the latter's shirtlessness. Neither say a word, but Akaashi can read it in their raised eyebrows and thrown expressions. Ultimately, Kuroo remains shirtless, to Kenma’s eye-rolling chagrin, and they march outside to the horses.

"It doesn't make sense to have three," Akaashi says, "We'll leave Oikawa's here, and I'll send someone for him later. There's plenty of water and grass, he'll be fine."

Kenma and Bokuto nod, but Kuroo takes a moment to touch his forehead to the horse’s side, and offers him a few loving pats. He murmurs quietly to the horse, and Akaashi can’t catch what the man says, but Kenma’s gaze on Kuroo softens. 

“Alright,” Akaashi says, “We should be able to get to the road without being seen but if we can’t, Kenma will have to make something up.”

Bokuto nods seriously, “A nobleman, a personal groom, a bed slave, and a soldier. I will tell them I was injured doing a great service for the crown, and Kenma-”

“We know,” Kenma interrupts, “We’ve been over it a thousand times.”

Bokuto is unphased by the comment, “And now we’ve been over it a thousand and one.” Bokuto is bouncing a little bit, and Akaashi is unsure if it is nerves, or just excitement over finally getting to leave this place.

“I’ll have to walk,” Akaashi says, “At least until we’re past the checkpoint, but Kuroo can ride with you, Kenma.”

They tack the horses, making sure to use the saddle and bridle from Oikawa’s carriage horse, which is fine, and decorated in the same filigree as his ostentatious carriage. It was more fitting for a nobleman than the worn plain tack Akaashi had outfitted his horses with. They wrap up all the stolen clothes to make sure it looks like Kenma is traveling with some belongings, then do a careful check over the area to make sure there are no traces of their presence. Kuroo is still coughing, but it's quiet and suppressible, a far cry from the harsh hacks of the days before.

“Wait,” Bokuto says, as they get ready to help Kuroo onto the horse, “I forgot, but I have- I took something else.” He rummages around in one of the bundles they’ve strapped to the saddle and brings out a thin wooden box with a metal clasp that Akaashi does not remember having seen before. “I saw a girl, and followed her, it’s um-” he shoves the box towards Kuroo, “You’ll see, I’m sorry.”

Kuroo takes the box slowly, fingers gripping tightly at the cheap wood, and Kenma’s hands clench into fists, white knuckled and shaking. “No,” He snarls. 

Kuroo ignores him and flips open the clasp neatly, not looking away from the box in his hands as Kenma shoots Bokuto a death glare. Bokuto is shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, and says again, “I’m sorry.” In Kuroo’s hands the box opens to reveal a cheap makeup set. Kohl, and colored grease paints, with a small cracked mirror resting in the lid. Akaashi’s breath catches achingly in his chest.

Kuroo stares down blankly, refusing to look up at the three who are watching him. Bokuto has a helpless look in his eyes, and is still shifting with a restless energy. Kenma’s fists are still clenched, and his mouth and brows are curled into a look of disgust that seems so out of place on his usually expressionless face. “I said no,” Kenma says, “I mean it Kuroo, don’t.”

“You don’t have to,” says Akaashi and he feels a little sick.

“You- I’m sorry, you don’t have to,” Bokuto says, “It was a bad idea, I’m sorry I’m not trying-”

“No,” says Kuroo, “No- it’s a good idea Bokuto. It is. I’m just- just playing a part right?” Kuroo treats the three to a forced, reassuring smile. “It’s a good idea, it’ll make us much more convincing. Thanks.”

Kuroo grabs the little brush from the kit, and Kenma growls, “Kuroo!”

“It’s fine, Kenma,” says Kuroo. “I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to-” he starts.

“I know-” Kuroo says reassuringly, “It’s a disguise, it’s just an act, it doesn’t matter.” He dips the brush into the black, and it doesn’t take long for him to turn his face into something else. He looks almost doll-like with the wash of rouge over his cheek, red lips, and his big, dark eyes accented with kohl. He’s taken red and gold and swirled them carefully over his eyelids. He looks exotic, he looks expensive, he looks for sale, and the sick feeling in Akaashi’s stomach isn’t going away. Bokuto makes an unhappy choking noise in the back of his throat as Kuroo looks at himself appraisingly in the mirror, running his hands through his dark hair until it is even more artfully disheveled.“Besides,” he says, “this will be the last time right?”

God Akaashi hopes so. After a few seconds the smile drops off of Kuroo’s face and he looks away from the three as he hops onto Akaashi’s white mare. 

Kenma closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, finally unclenching his fists and sits himself behind Kuroo on the horse. Bokuto mounts the black gelding that Kenma had rode in on, and Akaashi leads the horses carefully down to the road before falling back behind the two riders. 

They progress quickly, only stopping periodically for Kenma to force more water and willow bark into Kuroo in an attempt to keep his fever manageable. Kenma keeps his head high and upturned the entire time, and Bokuto keeps straight shoulders and a rigid posture that quite easily paints the picture of military training. Neither of them look back at Akaashi once, which makes sense. Noblemen don’t check to see if their slaves are following orders, it's a given.

Akaashi is beginning to think this may be the most remarkably boring and easy escape he’s ever pulled when, about mid afternoon as they pass through a crossroads, a young man rides up beside them. He is young, and wealthy, and tells Kenma and Bokuto he is travelling alone and would appreciate the company. There is no polite way to refuse, so the man rides alongside Kenma, shooting curious looks at Kuroo riding in front of Kenma on the mare.

“Ah,” says Kenma, wrapping his arms around the taller man, “Sorry for the distraction. He’s a new purchase, so I’m spoiling him a little.” He shoots a cruel little grin at the traveller, as he pulls Kuroo to him tighter. “Plus, he’s helping me stay warm. Good practice for what he’ll be doing in my bed later, if you know what I mean.”

Kuroo flinches slightly, and Akaashi is astonished at how well the two are selling this, and from Bokuto’s brief wide-eyed glace, Akaashi can tell he is feeling the same. 

The man laughs. “Kenjiro,” he introduces himself. “Kenjiro Shirabu. I’m off to visit some family, their estate is off this road. Gorgeous property, great hunting, but they’re determined to make a soldier out of me,” he says with an eye roll, flicking his gaze over to Bokuto, “Useless third son and all. You probably know how that is.”

Panic flickers in Bokuto’s eyes for a second before he steadies himself and lets out a brief, full-bellied laugh, “They come for all of us eventually my man,” he says, “Us useless third sons have to do something with our pointless lives.”

Bokuto and Kenma take over the conversation seamlessly, filling the ride with useless, inane chatter and Akaashi is seriously impressed. Kenma wasn’t lying when he said he could act like an empty-headed nobleman, and Bokuto’s easy going nature and experience chatting with noblemen at Fukurodani are more than enough to keep Kenjiro occupied. They cover for each other smoothly when Kenjiro asks a question the other can’t answer, and the man is enthralled enough in their conversation that he doesn’t notice Akaashi’s suspicious glances or Kuroo’s occasional coughs.

The sun is sinking fast behind the mountains when Kenjiro says, “It’s getting late, my Aunt and Uncle live just over there. You’ve been such good company, I’d hate to send you off travelling the night on these roads. Let me offer you a place to stay for the night.”

Kenma blinks in surprise, and Akaashi could see he head flick subtly before turning back to Kenjiro, as if his instinct was to look back at Akaashi. “You’re very kind,” Kenma says carefully, “But we have quite a bit longer to travel tonight if we intend to stick to our itinerary.”

“Don’t be daft,” Kenjiro says, “You really mustn’t travel through here often, the next town with a proper inn isn’t for miles. And calling it proper is being generous. Uncle Washijo always has room at his tables for fellow gentlemen, and-” he turns to Bokuto, “Especially for the brave soldiers of the realm. Please, you’d be doing me a favor honestly, it will keep him off my back for a night, and he’d skin me alive if I let an injured soldier ride off into the night without his hospitality.”

“You are kind,” Kenma says again, and his hands are clenching on his reigns and Akaashi can see his eyes flicking to the side as he tries to come up with another excuse. He takes a breath, “But I don’t want to impose, and I’m sure your Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t appreciate-” and Kenma gestures pointedly at Kuroo. Kuroo doesn’t move a muscle, but Akaashi wishes Kenma could have thought of anything else to say. He’s right though, you don’t take a pleasure slave into a respectable house. 

Kenjiro laughs, “Oh don’t worry, they aren’t that old fashioned. You’re both dead on your feet! Think of your horses at least! I really must insist.”

Akaashi sees Kenma mouth tense, and his finger grip tighter to the reigns as he struggles to find another excuse. His brows furrow slightly, and he takes a breath, but before he can speak Bokuto cuts in.

“Thank you!” Bokuto’s voice rings as he leans forward to look at Kenjiro past Kenma and Kuroo, “We are grateful for a comfortable place to rest for the night.”

“Excellent!” says Kenjiro. “It’s not much further now.”

Kenma’s shoulders tense, nearly imperceptibly and Akaashi feels a sense of dread flood him. Nothing could ever be easy.

###### 

All said and done, Kenma fucking hates Kenjiro Shirabu. Perhaps, under different circumstances, he wouldn’t feel quite so strongly, but after hours on horseback next to the man who kept looking a little too curiously at Kuroo’s bowed head, Kenma can say pretty definitively that he cannot stand him. It is exacerbated because not only does Kenma hate this man, he hates the words coming out of his own mouth that the presence of Kenjiro demands. He hates that when Kenjiro asked him what business he had in this province, Kenma had given a lecherous wink and mock-whispered “buying slaves.” 

He hates that every now and then, when he catches Kenjiro trying to catch a glance of Kuroo's downturned face, Kenma feels the need to pull Kuroo to him tighter, or run a hand up his side. To avoid suspicion, of course. And most of all, he hates that the man's "generous offer" has brought them to this point, riding up the driveway to a large manor underneath gates that proudly declare it as the Shiratorizawa Estate.

It is a large home, especially for the countryside, brick and cobblestone with an expansive and well taken care of grounds that seem to sprawl beautifully in every direction. As they approach there is a crowd of people milling around the front of the home outside. Kenjiro dismounts and is immediately pulled into a hug by an elderly woman standing next to a stern looking old man with a large nose. He is wearing a thick looking coat and chewing on the end of a long pipe. A slave is leading Kenjiro's horses away, and another has taken his cloak- because of course. A nobleman's manor would have slaves, and this is looking like even more of a mistake than before.

If Bokuto had given him a few more seconds, Kenma could've talked them out of this, he knows it. But here they are and it is too late to turn back now.

Kenjiro waves them down off their horses, and the tail end of his explanation to his uncle can be heard as they walk up. Kuroo stays on the horse, until Kenma remembers that he is waiting for an order, and he snaps his fingers at Kuroo pointing at the ground next to Akaashi. Kenma would have a lot to apologize to Kuroo for when all was said and done. 

"Sir Kozume, Lieutenant, this is my Great Aunt Keiko, my cousin Taichi, and last but not least, my Great Uncle Washijo, formerly Colonel Washijo of the Royal 15th." 

Kenma wills his face to stay neutral as he nods, and offers a brief shallow bow to the family in front of him. "Thank you for your hospitality, I am sorry to be causing you trouble."

"Nonsense dear-" Keiko starts, only to be cut off by her husband who is eyeing Bokuto appraisingly. 

"Lieutenant, eh?" the man asks. "What unit, boy?"

Bokuto doesn't blink. "Miyagi's Twelfth sir," he replies with a sharp salute, "Under Colonel Ukai, sir."

Kenma is shocked, but keeps his breath even and his face passive as he watches their interaction.

"Ukai?" the old man questions, "Thought he retired, the crazy old fellow. Though I guess I never thought I'd see the day where either of us left the forces. It's good to see an honest soldier. You'll have to tell me how the army is getting on without me, maybe you can talk some sense into these good-for-nothing excuses for men my family has been cursed with."

Taichi winces, but Kenjiro just gives an elaborate eyeroll, patting his uncle firmly on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, uncle. I'm sure the Lieutenant would be more than happy to regale you with stories over a nice hot meal, we've been travelling all day. Not to mention, the Lieutenant is wounded."

"Wounded!" says Keiko, "Forgive us, let's get you settled. We'll send some slaves round for your things and the horses."

"Don't bother," says Kenma, "I brought him along for a reason, after all." Kenma snaps his fingers in Akaashi's direction, "The horses." He doesn't bother to turn and see if Akaashi moves, but he does reach out and pull Kuroo towards him. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I kept this one with me? He's a new purchase and a little skittish, and I'd hate to leave him out with horses and ruffians." 

"But of course," Keiko says, though her eyebrows fly towards her hair. Kenma is not surprised. You don't bring pleasure slaves to respectable houses, and you especially don't parade them around in front of your hosts. Kenma will deal with them thinking he is rude, or tactless, but he is not leaving Kuroo to sleep in the stable when this is the first chance the man has had at a warm bed in months. 

"We'll send him up to your room?" Washijo asks with his own raised eyebrows.

"Yes, yes, that'll do." Kenma says dismissively, and watches as another slave leads Kuroo forward into the house. He does not look back.

As they walk into the house, Kenma falls next to Bokuto, following at a respectful distance behind Kenjiro and his family.

"How did you know what unit?" Kenma asks.

"It was engraved on the barrel of the gun," Bokuto whispers, "I- I don't know anything about the army, Kenma, fuck."

Kenma nods gravely. He doesn't either. They are in so much trouble. 

Dinner goes about as well as expected, which is to say, it is an absolute nightmare.

“Tell me boy,” Washijo says, after a few glasses of wine and unable to be disuaded by his wife from interrogating his guest, “Ukai still up to the same crazy tricks? I always told him his crazy tactics would get him in trouble one day, but he never listened”

“Um, yes sir.” Says Bokuto after a moment, eyes wide in panic, “Same um- Same tricks.”

It wouldn’t be so bad, Kenma thinks, not without guilt, if it were just him. Kenma can fake being an empty-headed lascivious nobleman easily. He’s been watching empty headed noblemen put their hands all over Kuroo for years, has played enough songs at enough pointless parties to imitate any flavor of bland young rich man he chooses. Bokuto though, is lost. 

Kenma tries to pull attention back to Bokuto’s injury. Maybe if they think he’s concussed they’ll be less suspicious.

“It’s so sad to see young men injured in war,” Kenma says, as he sips on his glass of red wine. It’s his second glass, or maybe his third, he’s unsure. 

At least Bokuto looks like a soldier, Kenma reasons to himself. All impossibly broad shoulders, handsome face cut with a strong jaw. He holds himself well too, with a proud, strong posture that is especially impressive for someone who lived his entire life as a slave. 

“Part of the duty,” Washijo says dismissively, “though that is a hell of a bruise son. How’d you get that one?”

“There was a skirmish, sir.” Bokuto replies.

The colonel raises his eyebrows in question.

“Um,” Bokuto hesitates. “Plague riots. They keep getting worse, especially out in the countryside. With so few people left to work the fields, snatchers are grabbing whoever they can.”

“So few slaves left to work the fields you mean,” says Washijo.

“Is that not what I said?” Bokuto says, and Kenma can tell he is trying to sound nonchalant, but it doesn’t quite read as anything other than dismissive. 

“Miyagi’s Twelfth on riot duty,” says Washijo, “Never thought I’d see the day. Ukai must be furious. Who did you say your captain was, boy?”

Bokuto’s eyes widen in panic, but before he can respond, Kenjiro interrupts from the opposite end of the table. “It’s out of control. It’s all the army can do to keep order. Especially with Oikawa and his ilk causing trouble.”

Kenma nearly knocks his wineglass over, but he catches it just in time, bringing it back up to his lips for another long sip. Bokuto is sitting perfectly still, frozen at his side. “Who?” Kenma asks, and even he is surprised that his voice doesn’t shake, “What sort of trouble?”

“Messing around with the proper order of things,” Washijo says with a sigh, leaning back and pulling his pipe out of a chest pocket. He chews on the end thoughtfully, “That’s what happens when young people have too much idle time. We’ve spoiled your generation, and this is how you repay us.”

“He doesn’t mean you, Kenma dear,” Keiko says placatingly, reaching over to pat delicately at Kenma’s hand resting on the table, “You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. Not like these young radicals causing trouble.”

Taichou leans forward eagerly, “They say there’s a secret organization of rogue gentlemen who go around buying slaves from honest traders, then sneaking back in later to steal the money they paid in the first place. Then, they release the slaves in poor, unsuspecting towns in the northern provinces and the beasts run amuck.”

Kenma takes another sip of wine. “A secret organization? That’s all a little bit fairytale isn’t it?”

“They’re only rumors,” Keiko says, “Don’t speak nonsense Taichou.”

“They are only rumors because no self-respecting trader wants to admit to being taken for a fool by an idiot dandy and a bunch of slaves.” Kenjiro says.

“Rumours,” Wahijo spits. “Oikawa and his like are a disgrace, but they’ve not the brains between them to pull one over on our King’s army. What do you think, Sir Kenma? Any signs of secret societies in your travels? Is your pretty painted whore a part of the resistance? Harbouring any traitorous thoughts?”

“Or any thoughts at all,” Taichou interjects, with a snort. “To put a brain in that one would be a great waste.”

They all laugh, and Bokuto at his side lets out a hearty chuckle as he digs his elbow into Kenma’s side.

Right. Kenma puts down the wine glass he’d been clenching and forces himself to don the most disarming smile he can manage. “Not that one, I think. I didn’t pay for his mind.”

“It’s like a children’s story,” Keiko smiles, waving a hand dismissively, “Secret societies, rebellions and runaways. It’s too fantastical to be real.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire,” Washijo grunts. “Tell me Lieutenant, what news do you have from the northern provinces? Is Nekomata still mucking about up there?”

It is a miracle they get through dinner, and the after drinks and cigars in the drawing room. Washijo’s questions get more and more pointed, and Kenma has no idea how well Bokuto’s bullshitting is going over with the old man, he’s hard to read. Kenma jumps in when he can, tries to steer the conversation away from the army, but the old colonel is relentless, and eventually Bokuto has to bow out, claiming a headache and gesturing pitifully at his bruised head. 

Maybe if they’re lucky Washijo will write any inconsistencies off as the head injury.

They finally call it a night, one too many glasses of whiskey later. Kenma hasn't had anything to drink in years, and he stumbles a little as a slave leads him to his room. Despite the haze of the alcohol, Kenma can feel eyes on him, and when he places his hand on the door handle to his room, he can see Kenjiro hanging around the corner.

Kenma steps briskly into the room, but pauses briefly, and listens as Kenjiro's footsteps walk down the hallway, towards Kenma's room, then pause right outside the door.

Fuck.

Kuroo is curled around himself near a dwindling fire that someone had lit in the stone fireplace across the room. He stirs when Kenma enters. Even at this distance, Kenma can tell he is feverish, his movements sluggish and his face flushed. He hadn't been able to have any willow bark since Kenjiro began to ride with them, one more reason to hate the detestable man.

What can Kenma do? Kenjiro is right outside the door, and they're all suspicious, they have to be suspicious, Bokuto has messed up everything, and they all know it. They were going to call the army in the night, Kenma would wake up, and he and Kuroo would be taken, and whipped, and maybe if they were lucky killed, but probably not. 

The alcohol is making his mind hazy, but he needs to think, he has to come up with a plan, he has to convince them he is a real gentleman, a real nobleman, escorting his pleasure slave, and stable boy and wounded friend (they’d gone over it a thousand and one times, but they were still failing). It was up to him but what can he do?

Kenjiro is watching, so he just needs to finish acting the part and make it real. That’s all. He just needs to be more convincing, and he’s had plenty of practice watching what noblemen do to slaves like Kuroo, so he’ll just-

"Kuroo," Kenma calls, snapping his fingers, and pointing to the floor in front of him. "Knees."

Kuroo startles, but slowly stands up and crosses the room, falling to his knees delicately at Kenma's feet, a look of confusion on his still-painted face. "Good."

Kenma leans down to pet at Kuroo's hair. His eyes are glassed over, and his face is flushed, and Kenma can feel the heat radiating from him as he leans to whisper into his ear. "They're watching." 

Kuroo freezes, eyes flicking towards the closed door. "Don't look. Don’t speak. Play along, and don't cough."

Kenma fumbles with the front of his trousers, making sure he keeps his back carefully turned towards the door. He doesn't actually unlace his breeches, just goes through the motions, but Kuroo's eyes are following his hands, and his breathing quickens. Fuck.

He grabs Kuroo's hair, pulling his face towards his hips, and holding him there. He isn't aroused, doesn't know if he could be through the haze of alcohol, but all Kenma is feeling right now is fear. Kuroo's breath catches, and he suppresses a small cough that has Kenma placing his other hand over his friend's mouth. Kenma stands like that for a moment, both hands on Kuroo, pulling him into his soft, covered crotch, and lets a shiver pass through his body. Kenjiro is still watching. Kenma can feel the man's eyes on his back, so he maintains his hold on his friend and starts a rhythm of slow, steady thrusts.

Kuroo fights against his hold immediately, hands coming up to push at Kenma’s hips, but Kenma’s hold on his head stays true.

“Stop.” He commands. And Kuroo stops. His hands fall back towards his sides, and though the tension never leaves his shoulders, he stops thrashing. Kenma feels the vibration of a sound against the hand he has placed over Kuroo's mouth, and he looks down for only a moment. Kuroo's eyes are clenched shut, and if Kenma wasn't holding his head so tightly, he's sure Kuroo would be shaking. Fuck.

He forces himself to look away. He's born witness to so many injustices performed against Kuroo in the man's life, but he never thought he'd be performing one himself, with his own hands, and his cowardice is all consuming, he can't bring himself to watch. Kenma feels a sense of utter loss fill him. He has no idea how long they stay like this. Kuroo on his knees, face forced into Kenma's hips as he thrusts rhythmically forward. It could be seconds or hours, or minutes, but Kenma tries to breath through it. Is Kenjiro still standing there? Has it been long enough? His hand on Kuroo's mouth is sweaty, and his hand in Kuroo's hair tightens involuntarily, causing the man to wince in pain. 

Surely, they can be done now. Kenma tosses his head back, letting out a few long, loud moans. This was it. He tosses Kuroo away from him, and his friend falls backwards onto his elbows, coughing and spluttering and wheezing, and Kenma just stares. Kuroo’s makeup is smeared across his face, red, gold and black mixing together to form an ugly bruise-like color over his eyes and cheekbones. How many times has Kenma seen his friend in this exact position? Tossed away by some cruel gentleman, like a child tossing away toys. Only now it was Kenma, and Kenma knows that in his actions he’s broken something irreparable. 

"I'm done with you for the night," Kenma says, and he feels his own heart shatter. "Get on the bed, get some sleep." 

Kenma needs to get out of this room. He re-tightens the laces on his breeches, and throws the door open, where he finds Kenjiro not so sneakily making his way down the hall.

"Enjoy the show," Kenma calls, and he has no idea what possessed him to do so. "I don't normally share."

"Sorry," Kenjiro calls, and at least he has the decency to flush with embarrassment, "I was just a little curious. I've never been one for pretty boys and I just wanted to see if it was maybe worth it."

"Was it?" Kenma asks coldly.

"I- uh," Kenjiro stutters through a response and Kenma remembers where he is.

"More for me if you don't," Kenma throws back his disarming smile and walks towards the bathroom the slave who'd brought him to his room had pointed out earlier. 

"Yeah," Kenjiro says. "Is it different? Having a pleasure slave, I mean, as opposed to a different kind. You seem... soft with him."

Kenjiro calls what Kenma just did to Kuroo soft?

"He doesn't need much more," Kenma says. "He doesn't need... cruelty.”

“Mmm,” Kenjiro hums thoughtfully, “I guess they are different from the rest of them. More like a pet than anything.”

“He’s not a pet,” Kenma says, trying desperately to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I mean, he’s a person- he’s just-" Kenma trails off.

"Huh," Kenjiro says, "I guess I never thought of it like that."

They stand awkwardly in the hall together, and Kenjiro isn't meeting his eyes.

"Well, goodnight, Sir Kenma. I guess I'll see you in the morning, if he doesn't keep you up all night that is." 

"He is insatiable, the poor thing," And the words are like tar in his throat, sticky and suffocating, "But it's best I cut him off. He can be a bit noisy, and we don't want to keep the house up."

Kenjiro blushes again. "Right," he says, retreating down the hall to his own room. 

Kenma steps into the bathroom. There’s a large mirror hanging over the sink, but Kenma can’t bring himself to look at it as he finishes his business then washes his hands one, two, three times. 

Back in the hallway he finds himself outside of his door, and he leans against it, letting out a sigh. There’s nothing he can do to fix it, not now. He steps inside, letting the door close quietly behind him. All of the candles have been blown out and the fire in the hearth is now nothing but smoldering coals. Kuroo is laying on one side of the bed, on his back, perfectly motionless. 

“Kuroo?” Kenma whispers. 

Kuroo doesn’t move. His eyes are closed and his hands are lying folded on his chest, but Kenma has spent enough nights beside him to know he isn’t really sleeping. But if Kuroo wants to pretend tonight, Kenma will let him. 

Kenma stands by the bed and briefly considers sleeping on the floor. He’s used to it, and it would probably make Kuroo more comfortable, but if a slave came in during the morning it would be suspicious. At least the bed is large. 

Kenma lays on his side, facing Kuroo, giving him as much space as possible, careful not to touch him as he makes his way under the covers. He exhales slowly, and watches Kuroo breathing. It never fully evens out, and the furrow in his brow doesn’t go away, but Kenma can feel the pull of the alcohol on his upper eyelids, as he is slowly pulled into sleep.

This might be the last time Kenma gets to fall asleep next to Kuroo and he wants to remember it. Wants to memorize the curve of the man’s profile, the way his chest rises and falls, the quiet sounds of his erratic breathing. But it all feels impossibly out of reach as his eyelids become heavier and heavier. He struggles to hold on, to grasp onto his consciousness, and he focuses on the raw hurt in his chest like the pain will keep him present, but it isn’t enough and slowly, unwillingly, wracked with a guilt beyond measure, Kenma is dragged into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So! I'm sorry! That's all I have to say. Um. Kenma is also very sorry. So when I wanted to write this fic I had a few scenes stuck in my head. Two of those scenes were the makeup palette scene, and the bedroom scene, both of which are in this chapter. I think I just want to hurt Kuroo. 
> 
> I am very nervous about this chapter because um, well. It hurts. So please if you are still reading and don't hate me for breaking our boys, let me know, I promise I'll put them back together again.
> 
> As always, your comments help me thrive. I keep thinking I'm going to write ahead and sit on chapters for once a week updates, but I can't. Once I'm done I want to post it because I need the validation. This was supposed to come out on Saturday, but if I sit on it I think I'll get self-conscious and never post it so here it is.
> 
> Again, I'm very nervous about this chapter, so now more than every, please let me know if you enjoyed it. 
> 
> ~Tantrum <3


	7. Kenma V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys deal with the aftermath and Kenma remembers.

Kenma wakes to warm sunlight on his face. He is in a warm, soft bed, can smell clean sheets, and when he opens his eyes, Kuroo is standing by the bed, and for a moment he could be back at his parent's estate, this one of any of the other hundreds of mornings he'd started this same way. 

"Kuroo," he starts, but he's cut off by his own yawn, and as he assesses his state he is instantly filled with regret. His mouth is dry, his head is aching, and it takes him more than a few moments to pull himself into sitting position. 

Kuroo is fully dressed, and when Kenma blinks the sleep away from his eyes he can see that he's painted his face again, stark red and black and gold, but it does little to detract from the dark, heavy circles beneath his eyes. All at once, Kenma remembers- Kuroo waiting by the fire, his own harsh, snapped commands, Kuroo on his knees, the smeared makeup as he tossed him away, and the memory is wine-soaked, blurry around the edges- and he is suddenly, painfully nauseous. He claps a hand over his mouth until the feeling subsides.

"Kuroo," he tries to start, forcing himself to look at his best and oldest friend, "Kuroo- I-" But Kuroo, back to the door, just places a finger over his own lips and shakes his head. His face is unreadable, and that in itself causes another wave of nausea to wrack him. Kuroo has never been unreadable. Not to him. 

"Master," Kuroo says, and Kenma hates this, he hates this, he wants to be out of this cursed place- "Good morning. The horses are ready when you are. We can leave at your leisure." 

Then he is gone, long strides across the floorboard, doors swinging behind him. He seemed less feverish than he had the night before. Perhaps Akaashi had met with him this morning and made him some tea. Kenma notices some fresh clothes laid out on the foot of his bed, presumably brought up from their stolen and hastily packed belongings. Kenma begins to dress himself. His head pulses with every movement, so it goes slowly. Through the haze of sickness, as he is lacing Yaku's lended boots onto his feet, he hears the sound of rapid hoofbeats through the window. 

He pushes back the ajar curtain further to look outside, soldiers, about a dozen of them, waiting in a prancing impatient line outside the house.

Fuck. Fuck. Panic slams into Kenma so hard he can barely breathe. He falls away from the window, knees catching on the bed, and jolts across the room and out the door. He nearly slips down the stairs at his breakneck speed, but he doesn't stop until he is outside. It can't be. He- He was convincing, and they can't be here, because that would mean that what he did to Kuroo was for nothing.

Once outside, he stumbles to a halt and can't stop himself from asking, "What the hell is going on?"

The whole household is outside, watching with worried expressions, but it's Colonel Washijo who catches Kenma's eye. He is standing at attention as the soldiers dismount and salute him, and Bokuto is on his knees on the ground beside him.

No, no, no, no, no- Kenma is stomping forward before he is even aware of it. "What are you doing? What is this madness?" He can still save them, he can sell it, talk them all out of this. But they know, of course they know. Kenma had told Akaashi that he could do this, and he couldn't fool anyone, and now they would all be-

"I'm afraid you've been taken in Sir Kenma," Colonel Washijo says with an apologetic frown, "This... this thing is not who he claims to be."

Kenma freezes. "What?"

"I don't know how he thought he would get away with this," Kenjiro says from somewhere behind Kenma, "Even I knew there was something wrong with his story, and I'm not a military man."

"Hmph," Colonel Washijo snorts, kicking at Bokuto's side dismissively. "Never try to trick an old soldier boy. We've seen it all before. Should have noticed sooner," he finishes, side-eyeing Kenma.

"Don't feel bad Sir Kenma," Keiko says, stepping forward and placing her hand on Kenma's shoulder lightly, "He took advantage of your kindness. How were you to know?"

Sir Kenma. They were still calling him Sir Kenma. Kenma wishes his head would stop pounding so he could fucking think. "Who- Who is he then?"

"Runaway slave, nothing more," Washijo says. "Taichi thought he might be a spy, so he sent a rider to the fort, but I confronted him and the boy confessed. They always do. Not smart enough to keep up a lie."

"I see," Kenma says. And he does see. "I- He claimed to know my father. I'm shocked, I never would have suspected."

"Of course you didn't," someone titters, but his head is spinning too much to track the voice, "They'll try anything, they're practically rabid. Poor Sir Kenma, I'm so sorry you've had to deal with this. But what good fortune you ran into Kenjiro and stopped here. Who knows what this wretch would have done to you once you crossed the pass."

Kenma is looking at Bokuto, whose head is bent stiffly downwards. He hasn't moved, not even when Washijo had thrown his offhanded kick. Kenma wants him to look up, but he doesn't. 

The commotion has brought the slaves out of the stable to watch and he sees Akaashi emerge from the dark doorway, followed by Kuroo. Kenma can see the moment Akaashi understands what happening, how he freezes in his tracks, then carefully disguises the initial horror on his face, but he isn't quick enough to reach for Kuroo, who sees Kenma and Bokuto surrounded by soldiers and charges forward with a choked "No!" that's ripped from his throat. 

Kenma's heart jumps into his throat, he doesn't think, doesn't let himself think, two steps to the side, and he's intercepting Kuroo, and he means to only shove him back, to stop him, but his hand is flying out in a backhand, catching Kuroo's jaw hard enough to sting, and when he barks out, "Stop that!" it's like Kuroo is a marionette and Kenma cut the strings. Kuroo stops immediately, and Kenma forces out "Behave yourself," and Kuroo sinks to the ground. Akaashi is beside him in an instant, one hand curling too tightly around Kuroo's bare upper arm, and Kenma hopes it's enough to keep him from fighting.

He's breathing too quickly, eyes darting back and forth between Kenma and the soldiers, and he's confused, he's so confused, but Kenma can't offer him any assurance.

"Seems your fuck-toy is a bit sympathetic," Taichi says, and several people chuckle. 

"I'll handle it," Kenma says, and his voice is shaking despite his best efforts not to. He hopes they think it's from anger, and not the raw, all-encompassing fear that has overtaken him. 

Everyone is looking at Kenma, so no one but Kenma notices as Bokuto raises his head to give one last glance at Akaashi, before looking back to Kenma and giving him a quick, decisive nod. 

"Ready the horses," Kenma says. And Bokuto's gaze returned to the dirt. Kuroo is looking at him in shock, but Akaashi pulls on his arm, getting him onto his feet and pulling him away. 

Kenma turns to Washijo, Kenjiro and the rest of the household. He gives a short, stilted bow. "Thank you so much for your hospitality. But considering the circumstances, I really must be leaving. This has been- overwhelming to say the least."

They overwhelm him with platitudes and apologies. Tell him he is welcome anytime. He makes vague promises to Kenjiro about inviting him to the Kozume estate over the summer. By the time they finish with the niceties, Akaashi has led out their two horses, brushed and tacked, and Kuroo is standing at his side with his head downcast. 

Kenma gives a final goodbye, and turns away from the Shiratorizawa Manor, mounting his horse, and pretending not to hear when a soldier barks "Out of that uniform, swine, stolen clothes are too good for you."

Kenma can't believe it. Even as they cross the gates and make their way down the road, he is waiting for an alarm sound, to be run down by the dozen soldiers and dogs, but it doesn't happen. They believed him. One imposter guest was enough. Whatever Bokuto had told them when the colonel confronted him, it didn't make them suspicious of Kenma and the others. Not bright enough to keep up a lie, Kenma thinks, and swallows back a hysteric chuckle. Kuroo and Akaashi are riding beside him, Kuroo sitting in the front, with Akaashi's arms on either side of him keeping a firm grip on the reins, and they are only a mile down the road when Kuroo begins to shift uncomfortably. 

"Stop," he says. Kenma and Akaashi push onward, paying no heed to his protest. 

"Stop!" he says more forcefully. Kenma and Akaashi ignore him again. He breaks free from Akaashi's hold and slips to the ground, and Akaashi immediately hops down beside him, pulling the horses to a halt. 

“We have to go back,” Kuroo’s eyes are wide and afraid, but every muscle in his body is tense and defiant. “We can’t. We can’t just leave him.”

“Kuroo, you can’t-” Akaashi starts, but Kuroo cuts him off again.

“We can’t leave him!” He is adamant, but he is also shaking, his hands curled into fists.

“Get back on the horse, Kuroo.” Kenma says. Kuroo just shakes his head, and turns, readying himself to bolt down the road, and Kenma’s heart skips a beat, but Akaashi grabs his arm firmly, tugging him back. 

“No!” Kuroo shouts.

“Kuroo-” Akaashi begins.

“Shut up,” Kenma hisses, “Just shut up, what are you going to do? What the hell is there that you think you can do?” 

Kuroo continues to struggle, but his eyes widen at the harshness in Kenma’s voice. “We can fight! We can sneak back-”

“Kuroo-” Akaashi starts, and his voice is gentle, despite his firm grip on the man, “Kuroo, its-”

“And what!” Kenma shouts back, cutting Akaashi off. “Bokuto lied for us, Kuroo, he lied so we could make it through the pass, if we go back, we get caught, and it’s all for nothing.”

“Then I’ll go back myself!” Kuroo spits back, and he’s angry, and Kenma has seen him angry but it isn’t often directed at him, not like this, “You can stay here, and be a coward, but I’m going to-”

“You aren’t going!” Kenma yells, and it stings, Kuroo calling him a coward. He knows it’s true, but- “Get back on the fucking horse!”

“Stop telling me what to do!” Kuroo is enraged, his nostrils are flaring, face red under his makeup, and his eyes are wild in a way Kenma hasn’t often seen, “You’re not-”

“Both of you stop!” It is the loudest Kenma has ever heard Akaashi speak, but it wasn’t a yell, not quite, and the tone is still gentle, but tinged with something else. The look in his eyes is so serious, serious and sad. Kuroo freezes, going stiff under Akaashi’s hold as the man wraps his arms around him in a full body hold. There’s no movement for a moment, no sound, just the horses kicking gently into the dust and the ripple of the wind. “Thank you, Kuroo, for caring. But Kenma is right. Why do you think Bokuto did it?” The tone stays gentle, like he is talking to a spooked horse, but there’s a quiet hitch in his voice, and Kenma looks away, pretending not to notice the wetness in Akaashi’s eyes. “We can’t go on a suicide mission. Not when there are hundreds of lives relying on us to cross that pass.”

Kuroo is shaking, but Kenma doesn’t think he’s crying. Akaashi is patting at his back comfortingly, his own watery eyes blinking furiously. Kenma wants to do something, wants to help, but he can’t, not when this is his fault. Not when this was his stupid fucking plan that failed. He’s frozen, hands clenched and useless, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, and he feels powerless. He ruins everything, and his treacherous mind flashes images of Kuroo on his knees last night, Kenma’s hands too tight in his hair. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes to disappear. 

“Okay.” Kuroo says, and Kenma opens his eyes. Kuroo climbs back onto the horse with Akaashi’s help, and Akaashi jumps back up beside him. “Okay. The safehouse.”

They ride onward, silent, with little incident. About fifteen minutes more down the road, Kuroo speaks again.

“You knew Bokuto, Akaashi,” and it’s a question, but not really, “Before he was in the caravan?”

“I-” Akaashi’s eyes widen, “Yes. I did. How did you-”

“He mentioned you,” Kuroo said, and Kenma doesn’t remember that, must have been on during the long march to their last market. Kuroo and Bokuto had chatted for hours, and Kenma ended up tuning most of it out. “I-” Kuroo bites his lips, “I’m so fucking sorry, Akaashi.”

Akaashi stiffens behind him for a moment, before sighing. “Yeah-” and he chokes on the words as they leave his mouth. “Yeah, me too.”

They ride on. Akaashi slides off the horse before they reach the checkpoint, walking beside them, leading Kuroo’s horse, reins still in his hand. Kenma is glad. He still doesn’t trust Kuroo to not bolt back towards Bokuto. 

They reach the checkpoint at the foot of the pass just before noon. Kenma had almost forgotten about it, and suddenly remembers that this was supposed to be the difficult part of the journey. A few soldiers peek their heads out of the guardhouse built along the side of the road, gesturing to each other when they spot the riders coming. By the time they draw level with the guardhouse, there are half a dozen soldiers standing in the road and blocking the path. They don’t look hostile, well, any more hostile than all soldiers generally do, but they are all well-armed and at attention.

Kenma takes a breath and tries to fall back into who he is supposed to be. He can’t look at Kuroo, he knows the persona will break, so he shifts his glance to the soldiers. “What’s this then?” he asks, with a careful exasperation in his tone. “Who’s in charge here?”

All of the soldiers salute, and Kenma has to suppress his surprise, but of course, they think he is a lord. “Routine check, sir!” says the nearest soldier, and he looks so young, maybe even younger than Kenma. “Must ask you to speak with our lieutenant, sir. All slaves leaving this valley must be thoroughly examined.”

Fuck. The last thing they need is for Kuroo and Akaashi to be _examined_ by an armed squadron. Especially when a few of them are staring lecherously at Kuroo up on his horse. “I think not!” Kenma says haughtily. “And take your hands off my property!” he snaps at a soldier who’s stepped forward to remove Kuroo from his horse.

“These are your slaves, sir?” asks the soldier. “They have to be examined. Regulations. There’s plague in these parts, if you didn’t know, and we don’t want it crossing the mountains.”

“I know perfectly well there is plague around,” Kenma says, nose in the air. This man is confident, but he is just a foot soldier and does not have the authority to tell a lord what to do. “Why do you think I am leaving? I will not lose my brand new courtesan to that filth. I’ve spent too much money on the damn thing. You can be sure he’s been nowhere near the dead and dying. And the other is my personal groom, I brought him from my home, on the other side of these mountains, and he’s not been near the pox-ridden farmlands around here either.”

The foot soldiers falters, “I- I’m sure you’re right, sir,” he says, “but we’re under orders-”

“Under orders to put your hands all over my pretty bedslave, hmm?” Kenma sneers. “Don’t think I don’t see your men’s wandering eyes. None of you are laying a hand on him, and if you keep this up, I’ll report you to your commander.”

Kenma chances a glance at Kuroo and Akaashi. Kuroo is sitting up, poker straight, letting the soldiers leer at him, while Akaashi is slumped over the reins of his horse, head downcast, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. Good. It is unlikely that this outpost hasn’t gotten a report about the warrant for Akaashi, so the more they are looking at Kuroo, the safer they are. 

“Who’s in charge here?” Kenma asks again. “Funnily enough, I feel like that was the first thing to come out of my mouth, and you still haven’t managed to answer it.”

The soldier looks uncomfortable, but at that moment the guardhouse door opens and an elderly man steps outside. “What’s all this then?” he says. 

“This, um, gentlemen won’t let us look at his slaves,” says the soldier.

“Hmm?” The man looks straight at Kenma, still perched on his horse. “Oh, I see. Well, what’s your name, sir?” Kenma gives him his name, and instructions to his invented estate. “And do you vouch for the good health of these slaves?”

“Of course, lieutenant,” Kenma says, “On my honor.”

“Well that’s enough for me. Let them pass corporal.”

The soldier's mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, “I- but -sorry. Sorry, sir.” He calls to the men blocking the path, “Stand aside!” 

Kenma hesitates, glancing at the old man again. He has to ask. “IS your unit stationed at the local fortress, then, Lieutenant?”

“About a half mile east of here, Sir Kenma,” says the man, “Most of us are out on patrol and checkpoint duty. This damned plague.”

“Quite,” says Kenma. “Thanks to your hard work it has spread no further. It is appreciated. I take it there’s no military mucking about on the other side of the mountains then?”

“Not as far as I know. Wouldn’t be a need for it.”

“Good to know. I’d hate to have to drag another gang of brutes away from my property.” He offers a smile, but it feels odd on his face. “Good day to you, Lieutenant.”

“And you, Sir Kozume.”

Kenma kicks his horse into a trot, and the three of them ride on through. He waits until they are more than out of earshot before he murmurs to Akaashi, “We wait until we’re around that bend and then we go faster.”

“Why?” says Akaashi.

“I saw over the man’s shoulder, into the guardhouse. There is a sketch of you pinned up with posters of wanted fugitives.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen, and he pales. They both know there is still a good chance one of the soldiers could notice what they’ve missed and sound the alarm. 

Kuroo says nothing. He’s said nothing since his outburst that morning. 

That night they camp under cover of some spindly trees halfway up the mountainside. 

“Not long now,” Akaashi murmurs, staring blindly into the fire. Kenma remembers what Akaashi had mentioned earlier, about knowing Bokuto before the caravan. Were they like him and Kuroo? Not that Kenma even knows what that means anymore, to be like him and Kuroo. Kenma doesn’t know if he could sit quietly by a fire if it had been Kuroo taken. 

Kuroo was standing, pacing back and forth between the small fire and their resting horses. His face is blank, and it's strange, so strange to look at Kuroo and see vacancy in his eyes. Kuroo stops when he can feel Kenma’s glance on him, looks up, and they make eye contact for a brief moment. Kuroo’s makeup is still on, like he’s forgotten about it, which makes no sense, Kenma knows he hates it, hates the greasy feeling on his skin, how it makes him look. 

Kenma breaks their glance, moving to rummage in the pack for a spare bit of stolen fabric they can use as a rag. His hand finds the nightgown that Bokuto brought back proudly from one of his and Akaashi’s nightly jaunts, and his hand freezes for a moment. He clenches the silk fabric, and his breath catches for a moment in his chest.

Bokuto had shown them more kindness than could ever be expected. He brought Kuroo food, warmth, and laughter in a place that had none of those things, not for Kuroo. Kenma didn’t even thank him. 

He exhales, pushing past the nightgown and finding a soft, worn linen shirt. He pulls it out of the pack and rips it into smaller, more manageable pieces. He grabs one of the newly made rags, shoving the rest back into the saddle bags, and grabs a canteen of water as well. Kuroo has stopped pacing, is leaning against a tree, away from Akaashi, curled up with his knees to his chest, staring blankly at the ground. He doesn’t look up when Kenma approaches.

Kenma kneels next to him. He takes his linen rag, bringing it to the mouth of the canteen and wets it. Kuroo still hasn’t moved. Kenma brings the rag slowly, carefully to Kuroo’s face, scrubbing gently at the greasepaint makeup. Kuroo doesn’t flinch, and Kenma was half expecting him to after everything, but Kuroo doesn’t flinch, so maybe things can be okay.

Instead, Kuroo sighs, letting his knees drop, shifting so he is laying on his back with his head in Kenma’s lap. Kenma continues to wipe gently at his face, red, black and gold swirling together through his ministrations in the flickering fire light. 

It’s familiar, this position, these actions. They never would have chanced this closeness before the raid, but it is one they’ve found themselves in many times since. It started at the mill. In the dark, echoey basement lined with long rows of cells, brick on three sides, bars on the other, where he and Kuroo would lay with moldy pallets beneath them and a low, stained ceiling above. 

This was the first place the snatchers took them after the raid, and Kenma still couldn’t figure out how to be a slave, which felt silly, because he was supposed to be smart, so why was this so hard? There were all of these rules that no one told him, but he was supposed to know, like don’t ask questions, and don’t look the overseer in the eye, and “don’t have the dumb fucking expression on your face Kozume or I’ll knock it the fuck off”. He was covered in bruises, and tired, and afraid, so afraid, and Kuroo was just so, so angry. 

Every night, they’d be shoved back into their shared cell, and the mill owner’s son would drag a stick along the bars, one end to the other, and laugh when Kenma cowered at the rattling sound. Kuroo eyes would narrow furiously, in his corner with his knees drawn to his chest, unflinching at the sound. They can only talk to each other in whispers, long after the lanterns are put out and the masters have gone. Kuroo tries to smile when he talks, tries to tell Kenma that its not so bad, and they’ll figure something out, Kenma was a nobleman, not from a particularly powerful family, but a nobleman nonetheless, so surely he would be freed soon. 

The third night, the mill owner’s son stops by, drags his stick across the bars, smirks at Kenma’s flinching, but this time, he frowns at Kuroo’s non-reaction. He does it again, and when Kuroo still doesn’t move, he wraps both hands around the cell bars and rattles them.

Kuroo’s eyes narrow, and he goes impossibly still. Kuroo hates this boy, has said as much to Kenma in their nightly whispers, hates the kind of people who indulge in the fear of others. Kenma can feel the tension, and he knows Kuroo is going to say something irreversably stupid, and get the shit beaten out of him for it, but maybe at least this will be the end of this wordless animosity between the two.

“Are you very boring or just very stupid?” Kuroo asks, and even Kenma knows now that they shouldn’t ask questions, much less questions like that, “Or do you think maybe it's both?”

The boy goes red, frozen for a moment, before spinning on his heel and storming off towards the steps that lead to the mill. Kuroo laughs softly, and Kenma knows everyone hears it echo through the basement, rippling out through the air. The room is hushed as two dozen slaves hold their breath as the master’s son stops for a moment at the foot of the stairs. There are three unbearable seconds of tension, before the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs fill the basement. 

“You shouldn’t have done that Kuroo.” Kenma is afraid. Kuroo won’t look him in the eye, but Kenma can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that Kuroo is afraid too. He knows he’s made a mistake, and they don’t know the consequences.

In the morning they take Kuroo away.

Kenma is on his own for five days, and he feels like the world has fallen away from him. He must work, because he doesn’t get beaten, but he doesn’t remember any of it. In the evenings he is shoved back in his cell, and he lays on his moldy pallet, buries his head in his arms and shakes. He doesn’t look up, but he thinks he hears laughter along with the nightly rattling of his cell door. 

On the sixth night, after the miller’s son has made his nightly visit, a couple of men come down the stairs, talking loudly and cracking jokes. One of them is carrying a lantern. Kenma doesn’t move from where he is lying. There is a rattle, loud and close- they are unlocking his door, and one of them men says “Wake up handsome, conjugal visit.” Kenma bolts up so quickly his head spins, and the other man shoves Kuroo into the cell, and shoves the door shut with a clang. 

_Kuroo._

He’s on his knees at the edge of the cell, still being held. The man is holding him through the bars, one hand knotted into his shirt, the other under his chin, turning his face up. “See how nice we can be when you’re good?” he says. 

Kenma can hear Kuroo’s breathing, fast and shallow, and he doesn’t dare move. The man holding Kuroo shifts until he has one hand wrapped around the iron bars, and the other hooked through- through Kuroo’s _collar,_ fuck, and everything feels so wrong, everything, and Kuroo just hangs there, kneeling, not struggling against the pressure on his throat.

“What do you say?” the man asks.

Kuroo doesn’t respond.

“What do you say?” the man repeats, tugging on the collar and bringing Kuroo up off his knees by his neck.

Kuroo gasps a little. Kenma’s hands clench into fists. He wants to move, wants to grab Kuroo and drag him away to a safe corner, and Kuroo squeezes his eyes shut and chokes out, “Thank you.”

His captor laughs cruelly, lets him go, and Kuroo sways back and collapses, curling in on himself. All thoughts fly out of Kenma’s head, he just needs to get to Kuroo, but the men are still there, watching, only now they’re looking at Kenma.

“We heard some interesting things, Kozume,” one says, “A musician, huh? Why didn’t you tell us, no wonder you’re so shit at this. Well, we don’t need a dandy little musician around here, but we do need the gold, so don’t worry, we’ll look for a nice fancy lord for you to prance around for. I doubt you’ll be here much longer. Him on the other hand-” the man looks down, “I can think of lots of uses for him. Sleep well.”

Kenma barely notices the men laughing as they leave. He drags Kuroo into his lap- Kuroo is unresisting- manages to get him half upright so he can see his face. Kenma’s fingers rub across Kuroo’s cheekbones and come back darkened, sticky with paint, and his stomach drops. “Kuroo,” he whispers.

Kuroo has to make an effort to focus on him, he can tell. “Kenma,” he says, and his voice is ragged, quiet. “They said you were-”

“I’m here.”

Kuroo shivers and goes limp. Kenma catches him, drags him close, lays him down with his head in his lap. Kuroo’s hands are shaking, Kenma catches one, brings it up to his own face, “I’m here,” he says again, holding Kuroo tighter. He cards his fingers through Kuroo’s hair, and says it again, and again like a mantra. They must sleep, eventually, because they are woken the next morning, and they take Kuroo away again.

“Don’t worry,” says one of the men who comes for him, “You’ll get him back tonight if he behaves.”

They don’t stay there for much longer. They stop hitting Kenma, let the bruises fade so they can find him a buyer, but they take Kuroo every day, and every day he comes back, curled into Kenma and shaking. Before they can sell Kenma, the mill is shut down. The military raids the place, repossessing all of the slaves and putting them for auction, and Kenma is not happy, but hopeful, until he sees that Kuroo is being auctioned as a courtesan. They are sold together, and that’s the pattern for the next few years, Kuroo would suffer unspeakable horrors during the day, then at night, Kenma would find him, they’d wrap around each other, and Kenma would say it until it was meaningless, “I’m here.” As if Kenma being there did anything to help Kuroo.

Kenma doesn’t say it now, as he finishes wiping away the red and black and gold. It’s on his tongue, and he can feel the words he’s said so often, but if they were meaningless before, they definitely are now. He still hasn’t even apologized.

“Kuroo,” he starts, “I’m-”

“I’ll take first watch.” Kuroo says, and despite having his head in Kenma’s lap, he won’t look at him. “I won’t be able to sleep yet anyway, and Akaashi needs rest.”

“Okay,” Kenma says. He wipes off the last of the makeup, lets the linen rag fall to the side. Kuroo is still in his lap, eyes shut, but he doesn’t look peaceful, not quite. Kenma takes a finger and traces the slope of Kuroo’s nose, the angle of his jaw. It is heart-breaking how beautiful his friend has grown. 

Kuroo sits up, and Kenma snatches his hand back to himself. He shouldn’t touch Kuroo like that, not anymore. It would take a while for him to remember, to not fall back into these patterns, but just because Kuroo isn’t flinching doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Kuroo’s never fliched at the hurts.

Kenma finds his sleeping roll, lays it out next to the fire, next to Akaashi, and doesn’t stare at Kuroo’s resumed pacing. 

He’ll apologize when Kuroo is ready to hear it. That obviously wasn’t tonight.He falls into an uneasy sleep, filled with clattering iron bars, mocking laughter,moldy cots, and too low ceilings. In his uncomfortable, violent tossing, he does not notice the fire dying and Kuroo, disappearing quietly down the mountain and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so. So. I don't like making excuses and it feels terrible to come back missing at update with only one POV instead of two, but it's long and relatively juicy so please forgive me. 
> 
> I'm a teacher, grades for the first quarter were do so I was swamped with students turning in late work and then last weekend a storm knocked out my internet for three days, I write in Google Docs on a chromebook and I didn't have access to the story, and the weekend is normally when I get writing done.
> 
> I've also just been super unmotivated and depressed for reasons I won't go into, but this is what I got for y'all! I hope you enjoy it. Chapters might be one POV in the future, just because I'd rather give y'all weekly updates of single POVs than sporadic updates with multiple POVs. 
> 
> Um, but about this chapter. I'm sorry Bokuto! Also Kenma and Kuroo need to sort their shit out, everything is kind of breaking for them right now. We get to see a little bit of Kuroo's courtesan origin story, it is of course, miserably sad. 
> 
> Please let me know what y'all are thinking about this chapter, I'm as always incredibly insecure. Hope y'all are having a good spooktober!


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